Promises

Promises are comfort to a fool.And I'm that fool.In our many years of existence we have all had the leading role of being that fool.Onto promises.......I have numerous Oscar's for I know I play that role oh so well.I wondered why do I fall victim to this.The purpose of a promise was never to break itBUT.....If it is broken it becomes a lie.I wondered why do I fall victim to promises.It is maybe because I'm a Promise Keeper.I am an addict for promises.I could never stay away from it.Never stop believe in it.

A promise is equivalent to 'say what you mean' and 'mean what you say'.So when a promise is made to me it is align with the saying, 'It's like taking candy from a baby'.Not naive for I know never to believe in Promises.Optimistic, maybe.I always believe in promises.WHY? ? Because when I make them I do my best to keep them no matter the circumstances.Promises are my Opium.But I must say most of the promises made to me were kept.But as for now, , , I'm getting the bad side effects.

Never Is A Promise

Never is a promiseYoull never see the courage I knowIts colors richness wont appear within your viewIll never glow - the way that you glowYour presence dominates the judgements made on youBut as the scenery grows, I see in different lightsThe shades and shadows undulate in my perceptionMy feelings swell and stretch; I see from greater heightsI understand what I am still too proud to mention - to youYoull say you understand, but you dont understandYoull say youd never give up seeing eye to eyeBut never is a promise, and you cant afford to lieYoull never touch - these things that I holdThe skin of my emotions lies beneath my ownYoull never feel the heat of this soulMy fever burns me deeper than Ive ever shown - to youYoull say, dont fear your dreams, its easier than it seemsYoull say youd never let me fall from hopes so highBut never is a promise and you cant afford to lieYoull never live the life that I liveIll never live the life that wakes me in the nightYoull never hear the message I giveYoull say it looks as though I might give up this fightBut as the scenery grows, I see in different lightsThe shades and shadows undulate in my perceptionMy feelings swell and stretch, I see from greater heightsI realize what I am now too smart to mention - to youYoull say you understand, youll never understandIll say Ill never wake up knowing how or whyI dont know what to believe in, you dont know who I amYoull say I need appeasing when I start to cryBut never is a promise and Ill never need a lie

The Manuscript of Saint Alexius

There came a child into the solemn hall where great Pope Innocent sat throned and heard angry disputings on Free-Will in man, Grace, Purity, and the Pelagian creed-- an ignorantly bold poor child, who stood shewing his rags before the Pope's own eyes, and bade him come to shrive a beggar man he found alone and dying in a shed, who sent him for the Pope, "not any else but the Pope's self." And Innocent arose and hushed the mockers "Surely I will go: servant of servants, I." So he went forth to where the man lay sleeping into death, and blessed him. Then, with a last spurt of life, the dying man rose sitting, "Take," he said, and placed a written scroll in the Pope's hand, and so fell back and died. Thus said the scroll:

Alexius, meanest servant of the Lord, son of Euphemianus, senator, and of Aglaia, writes his history, God willing it, which, if God so shall will, shall be revealed when he is fallen asleep. Spirit of Truth, Christ, and all saints of Heaven, and Mary, perfect dove of guilelessness, make his mind clear, that he write utter truth.

That which I was all know: that which I am God knows, not I, if I stand near to Him because I have not yielded, or, by curse of recreant longings, am to Him a wretch it needs Such grace to pardon: but I know that one day soon I, dead, shall see His face with that great pity on it which is ours who love Him and have striven and then rest, that I shall look on Him and be content.

For what I am, in my last days, to men, 'tis nothing; scarce a name, and even that known to be not my own; a wayside wretch battening upon a rich lord's charity and praying, (some say like the hypocrites), a wayside wretch who, harboured for a night, is harboured still, and, idle on the alms, prays day and night and night and day, and fears lest, even praying, he should suddenly undo his prayer and perish and be great and rich and happy. Jesu, keep me Thine.

Father and mother, when ye hear of me, (for I shall choose so sure a messenger whom God will shew me), when ye hear these words, and Claudia, whom I dead will dare count mine, bidding her pray she be Christ's more than mine, believe I loved you; know it; but, beloved, you never will know how much till at length God bids you know all things in the new life. Alas, you have had little joy of me: beloved, could I have given drops of blood in place of your shed tears, the cruellest wounds had been my perfect joys: but both my love and your distress needs were my cross to bear. Forgive me that you sorrowed. And be glad because you sorrowed and your sorrow was holy to God, a sacrifice to Him.

Know now, all men who read or hear my words, that I, Alexius, lived in much delights of a dear home where they who looked on me looked with a smile, and where I did but smile to earn sweet praises as for some good deed: I was the sunlight to my mother's eyes, that waked their deepest blueness and warm glow, I was my father's joy, ambition, boast, his hope and his fulfilment. It may beI grew too strong a link betwixt their hearts and this poor world whose best gifts seemed to them destined for me, grew, when they looked on Heaven, a blur upon their sight, too largely near, as any trivial tiny shape held close will make eclipse against the eye it fills: and so, maybe. for their sake, not for mine, God took me from them, me, their only son, for whom they prayed, and trebled pious deeds, and took thought in this life.

I grew by them, learning all meet for my estate on earth, but learning more, what they taught more, of God, and loving most that learning. And at times, even from childhood, would my heart grow still and seem to feel Him, hear Him, and I knew, but not with ears, a voice that spoke no words yet called me. And, as ignorant children choose "I will be emperor when I am big," my foolish wont was "I will be a saint:" later, when riper sense brought humbleness, I said "When I am grown a man, my lot Shall be with those who vow their lives to Christ."

But, when my father thought my words took shape of other than boy's prattle, he grew grave, and answered me "Alexius, thou art young, and canst not judge of duties; but know this thine is to serve God, living in the world."

And still the days went on, and still I felt the silent voice that called me: then I said "My father, now I am no more a child, and I can know my heart; give me to God:" but he replied "God gives no son save thee to keep our fathers' name alive, and thus He shews thy place and duty:" and, with tears, my mother said "God gives no child save thee; make me not childless." And their words seemed God's more than my heart's, theirs who had rule on me.

But still my longing grew, and still the voice: and they both answered "Had God need of thee to leave thy natural place none else can fill, there would be signs which none could doubt, nor we nor thou thyself." And I received that word; knowing I doubted since they bade me doubt.

And still the days went on, and still the voice and then my father said "The bride is chosen, if thou wilt have her; if not, choose thyself." And more and more I prayed "Give me to God:" and more and more they urged "Whom gives He us save thee to keep our name alive? whom else to stay us from a desolate old age, and give us children prattling at our knees?" and more and more they answered "Shew to us how He has called thee from thy certain path where He has set thy feet?" Wherefore I said "I will obey, and will so serve my God as you have bidden me serve Him, honouring you:" and they two blessed me, and we were agreed.

And afterwards Euphemianus laughed "He asks not of the bride; but, boy, art pleased? 'tis thy fair playmate Claudia, fair and good." I, who asked not because I nothing cared, was glad in afterthinking: for the girl lad been my playmate, and of later time knew her beauty with familiar eyes and no more feared it than I feared the grace of useless goddesses perfect in stone, lingering dishonoured in unholy nooks where comes no worship more; so that I mused "The damsel brings no perilous wedding gift of amorous unknown fetters for my soul; my soul shall still be spared me, consecrate, virgin to God until the better days when I may live the life alone with Him:" so was I comforted.

But, in the hour when all the rite was done and the new bride come to her home, I sitting half apart, my mother took her fondly by the hand and drew her, lagging timidly, to me, and spoke "Look up my daughter, look on him: Alexius, shall I tell what I have guessed, how this girl loves you?" Then she raised her head a moment long, and looked: and I grew white, and sank back sickly. For I suddenly knew that I might know that which men call love.

And through the tedious feast my mind was torn with reasonings and repentance. For I said "But I may love her," and kept marshalling forth such scriptures as should seem to grant it me: then would an anguish hurl my fabric down, while I discerned that he who has put hand upon the plough must never turn again to take the joyaunce granted easy lives. And bye and bye I stole away and went, half conscious, through the darkling garden groves, amid the evening silence, till I came to a small lonely chapel, little used, left open by I know not what new chance, where there was patterned out in polished stones Peter denying Christ. I hastened in, and threw me on the floor, and would have prayed; but, in a rush of tears, I fell asleep.

And there I dreamed: meseemed the easy years had slipped along, and I sat, pleased and proud, among my ruddy children, and I held my wife's smooth hand, who but so much had changed as to grow fairer in her womanhood; and, facing us, a carved and marble Christ hung on a Cross and gazed with Its dumb eyes, I looking on It: and I turned my head to smile to Claudia, and then looked again; behold Its right arm moved, and then was still, And a low voice came forth "Alexius, come."

And I replied "Oh Lord I am content; but lo my father."

Then my father stood, meseemed, beside me, leading in his hand a sturdy urchin, copy of himself, and answered "Son, my ears do hear thee called; and now I have this son of thine: go forth."

And once again the voice, "Alexius, come."

And I replied "My Lord, I am content; but lo my mother."

Then my mother stood, meseemed, beside me, and her arm was wound round my wife's neck, and clinging to her skirt a baby boy and girl that teased and played and clamoured for her kisses: so she stood, and answered "Son, my ears do hear thee called; and now this daughter hast thou given me, and now I have these babes of thine: go forth."

And louder then the voice, "Alexius, come."

And I replied "Dear Lord, I am content; I come."

Then Claudia's hand grew tight in mine, and I looked on her face and saw it so as when my mother bade her look on me, and I replied "Oh Lord I were content, but lo my wife."

And still again the voice; and still again her hand that drew mine back; and I replied "My wife: I cannot come."

And still again the voice, "Alexius, come," loud and in wrath.

And I replied "My wife: I will not come."

And with that word I woke.

I was in darkness, and the door was locked, (doubtless while I, asleep or tranced, lay dumb some one had sought me there and had not found, and so had gone, unconscious, prisoning me); I groped my way toward the altar steps, and thanked my God, and prayed.

When morning broke I heard without two voices, as it seemed of holy pilgrims talking, and one said

"The youth Alexius surely has fled forth to serve God safelier;" the other said "Then doth he well; for now that better part shall none take from him, he shall be all God's and only God's, not father's, mother's, son's, nor any fond fair woman's." Then they went.

But I was still there prisoned. Day moved on, and brightened, and then waned, and darkness came, broken by one white moonbeam, for an hour, that seemed a promise, and, in that good hope, I prayed, then slept.

But when morn grew again, and no deliverance came, but frequent steps, and voices passing, I grew scared with doubts if, keeping silence, as from enemies, and by my silence dying, I should beself-murdered or God's martyr; and I thought how, maybe, at the last my fainting voice should vainly cry too late, and I should pass with none to give God's comfort. But I thought "If God wills even that, then let it be."

But when the noon sun glowed I heard a hand touch at the door, and crouched me in a nook, and scarce had crouched when Claudia passed by me with slow steps to the altar: she prayed long; praying, poor child, to have me given back, claiming me back of Heaven, as if her right could equal That right, crying out for me by loving names, and weeping, that my heart went out of me towards her, wondering, and yearned for her. But God was pitiful, so that I swerved not.

When I heard her vow to pray there daily, I perceived through her deliverance should come shortly: and I planned to stand within the shadow the noon light threw from a massive column by the door, and, when she had passed in and hid her face, get me forth softly.

But the flesh was weak, and when I waked again the noon beams fell full on the face of Peter where he wept repenting; Claudia was already there.

I thought a moment should I not come forth, and charge her let none know, and go my way; but, did she give one startled sudden cry, womanlike, I had been betrayed: and then I feared her if she wept.

May God forgive my weak heart then, my weak heart all my days, which never has been so strong as not feel always the fall at hand, but then so weak that some few urgent tears and soft sad words might, haply might, have bought me from my God.

So she went forth, unconscious: and I prayed death should not come at night, with none at hand to minister beside me, and in faith I laid me down to wait what God should send.

And in a little while she came again, and sought and found a gold and emerald pin, (one of the gifts they made me give to her), dropped from her loosened hair, then, kissing it, passed out, and, for a moment long, forgot to make the door fast, turned back to the task, then, murmuring "Why? For it is better thus, when whoso wills can enter in and pray," left it and went.

Then free, I made my vow to live unknown, unhonoured, with no ties, no certain home, no aims, no rights, no name, an unregarded wanderer, whose steps, by whichsoever road they passed, but passed to travel nearer Heaven. And, for a sign, I made a secret place and hid my ring under the altar.

You will find it there: at the right hand a cross upon an Acut on the floor, so small you must look well, and near it, at the altar-base, a crack I found there in the chiselling, (just behind a cherub's wing), is closed with dust and earth; there lies the ring. Give it me mine again, it and my name I take back for my grave, as I take back my kinsfolk and my friends to pray and mourn for me and give God thanks.

That done, I got me forth, and saw none nigh, (the search near home being over, as it seemed), and with my best poor speed I found a copse whose green thick tangles hid me: there I lay till the cool nightfall came and patient stars watched Earth asleep, as if they prayed for her; and other eyes saw not save theirs, and those that look from Heaven, when I came sickly forth and dragged my limp and failing limbs along.

I made my clothes in tatters; thus I went and begged food at a convent for my life that else were flickered out: so they gave food, and they gave shelter: and at dawn I went, while none who could have known had looked on me, and, hastening on my journey, followed forth my fellow-Roman Tiber's seaward strides, and reached the port. There, as I since have learned, Euphemianus had left men in wait while he searched otherwhere: but God ruled all.

A little ship was just launched out to sea, her heel still caught upon the grating beach, the men were good and took the pilgrim in who at the farewell moment called to them, and, in what while I know not, but it seemed as short as in a dream are days and years, I saw my shores grown narrow purple clouds, and then (for I write truth though shaming me) I broke into such weeping that the men felt whiteness in their cheeks, and, marvelling, sent whispers to and fro, in doubt of me lest witchcraft held me or my some deep crime had set a curse demoniac; and they schemed if they should put back to be rid of me, but one said "Tush! the youth weeps for his home; at his age, maybe, some of us could weep; let him alone."

A rough and grizzled man, who after, at the haven, came and clapped a great hand on my shoulder, "Look, my boy, you keep your secrets safer: for I heard of a hot hunt after a great man's son, and when I saw you weep ...... Well go your way, my tongue shall earn no wages by its blab. Maybe at your age I should have fled too, if yoked against my will; but I am old and preach go home again. Some say she's fair; and a fair woman, love her or not love, is a fair woman: but, or fair or foul, be wise, young sir, be wise; never go starve because your cake's not candied to your taste." I said "Kind friend, I have no home to seek; God gives me not a home till bye and bye," and left him. So my pilgrimage began.

But, oh vain heart of man! can this be true which I remember, that I, plodding on, whither I did not ask me, as God willed, undoubting and ungrieving, yea, puffed up to feel my heart was numb of all regret, carrying upon my lips (as men will burr a day long some persistent measured strain) for refrain-catch "Now all and only God's," drew from my bosom, with my crucifix, a withered crumpled weed, a clinging thing that, green and dainty, new brushed from its root, with one white flower-speck on it, trailed its sprays athwart the purple hem of Claudia's veil the last time in the chapel while she prayed; it lay upon the floor when she was gone. A worthless grass, what good was it to me? and, lo, made fellow with my crucifix! yet surely I had done it scarce aware, for now I gazed on it so stupidly as though a secret hand had placed it there to set a riddle so, nor could recall what thought I took it with. But see what snares I fled from, flying Claudia; suddenly the thing was at my lips, in such a kiss as, maybe, lovers kiss on women's mouths, in such a kiss howbeit as brought forth shame almost in its own birth. I hurled the weed, the viperous thing, into the battling surf that dragged and sucked the booming shingles down, lashing the beach before a coming storm; I hurled it forth and went.

It seems to me, looking back now, as if that made an end. I think I had no temptings afterwards.

Natheless my grief was bitter many times remembering home: but that I felt not sin, because 'twas as a soul among the dead might sorrow, never wishing to come back. And Claudia was not of my memories: scarcely at all: a stray bad dream at night would bring her to me, make me dream I wept because I might not love her, but not dream that I did love; in daytime she came not.

Ten years I wandered: who cares know the whither? a pilgrim and alone I trod my way, no man regarding me. Alone with God: whether in deserts or the throng of towns; whether upon the mountain-tops, whence earth shows sometimes so too exquisite for man as though the devil had leave to fashion it and cozen us with its beauty; or below, where in the valleys one beholds the hills grow nearer Heaven at sunset; or my ears full of the hymn of waters, where the sea breaks at one's feet among the rough brown rocks; whether in pain, in weariness, in fear, or, thankful, taking comfortable rest; always alone with God.

So for ten years: and in the later of them I had peace: so for ten years, and then, by what degrees I know not, (for the stupor crept like sleep, slowly yet sudden on one at the last), my peace became a blankness. And one day I sought to rouse me, questioning "Where is God?" and could not weep because I found him not, yea, could not rouse me. And my prayers were words, like trite goodmorrows when two gossips meet and never look for answers; and my praise was rounded like the song the poet makes to one who never lived for him to love. I was my Pharisee to cheat myself and make myself believe me that God's friend I had forgotten what it felt to be.

So, when I saw this plainly, I took thought, pondering how it should be that when I pined for thirst of human love I loved God more and felt His love more near me than when now my heart was swept and garnished, void for Him: at last I saw my need of quickening pain to stir the sluggish soul awake in me, and knew I offered nothing to my Lord, offering Him that it cost me nought to give; what good to turn to Him, "Lord I leave all," if all be noway precious?

I arose and set my face to Rome, making all haste.

On the forty-seventh day I saw the sun droop to the hills behind my father's house, and lo, while I toiled up the rude ascent, our last slope of the Aventine, there came, riding apart and grave, from the far side, Euphemianus. When he reached the gate he entered not, but seemed to point me out to the servitors that followed with his hawks, and watched me coming upwards painfully. And when he saw me footsore and so spent he had compassion: ere my prayer was done, "Food, my good lord, and rest, for charity," he bade them take me in.

Six years ago: and now I die here. No one bade depart; they gave me daily scraps, and let me live in the shed for harbouring squalid wanderers that sleep a night, and take their alms, and go.

None knew me; who should know me? Gone away, past ten years since, a comely petted boy, and now a half decrepit sickly wretch, a lean and shrivelled carcase, the ten years writ twenty on my leathery wrinkled face, how was I their Alexius? Nay, they looked and saw the stranger in the beggar's shed they called, for want of name, Old Lazarus.

In the beggar's shed with God: with God again! Oh exquisite pain that brought so exquisite joy! even by instant peril to be lost lo I was saved. Oh blessed exquisite pain! my heart awoke, for anguish, and felt God.

I saw my father pass out and pass in; sometimes he noted me and spoke a word or looked a careless greeting, oftenest not; I saw him daily, and I learned his face how stern long sorrow made it and how still, and, when some days he could not make a smile, I heard the servants whisper "Do you see? this is his lost son's birthday," or "the day his son fled forth," or else "his baptism," "confirming," "going to school," all such home dates as parents count who watch their children grow: and he was changed, they said, cared not to see friends' faces greeting him, nor join in talk, but would be solitary; changed, they said, since that strange losing of his only child. My mother I saw not in the first days, for she came never forth, but sat and slept, and wakened querulous, and slept again. And Claudia tended her: I had not thought to find her here; I looked she'd count me dead and marry her, ('tis known what women are), and was all startled when I saw her first: but only for the strangeness, after that she was no more to me than I to her, she might have smiled to me, or in my sight, that dangerous smile and I be no more moved than if a babe had laughed as I passed by.

Then a day came, a still and sultry day when one might take count of each leaf that stirred and think the one shrill grasshopper too loud, my mother waked and heard a hymn I sang, and took a whim to have the singer brought: only a whim, belike, for could my voice bring back the stripling's voice she had thought sweet? they fetched me, I stood by her: ah my mother! and she so changed! nothing of her old self; the goodliness, the sweetness, the delight, gone, waned out from her, as the light of day was waning from her eyes long dulled by tears. Ah, could I but have clung about her feet, crying out "Mother, take thy son again!" But yet for her it would have been too late.

She talked to me, inconsequent grave talk like children's, whispered after when I prayed, and made me sing her hymns, so was content longer than was her wont, then bade me go and come again to-morrow: ever since she calls me every day.

And every day is Claudia there. More than two thousand days, and every day I look on Claudia's face grown wistful and more sweet, and every day behold her patience, hear her wise grave words, and better know her all she is.

What then? Have I not striven? have I not prevailed?

And now death is at hand: some few days more and I shall lay me down and be at rest. There will be no farewell at last, I think;' they will not know of me that I lie sick and pass away; and, even if they knew, why should they come to close my dying eyes? the beggar Lazarus can die alone, as he has lived alone. My mother, though, will lack me, ask for me, Claudia will send to bid me hasten, then the word will come "He died this morning," and she will not weep but say "Poor wretch: God rest the parted soul," and turn to soothe my mother with some wile to make her never miss me: and may beEuphemianus will not hear the news, or will not note it if he ever hears. So I shall lie in the grave and they not care, but wait for lost Alexius to come home, and mourn for him, half hating him for their grief.

Give me fruit, give me fruit, oh Christ give my earned fruit, for all my sufferings: I have mine for me, but I claim theirs, give fruit for them I smote.

Have I written wildly? I will cancel nought. for I have written looking death in face, thinking God bade me write: and words come so must stand untouched. But surely this much grace my Lord hath given me, that they shall know.

Behold, I make this paper, being forced as by the Spirit, and it comes on me that God doth choose his highest in the world to be the beggar's messenger: he first, and I the last, so thereto he is called; servant of servants. This, which I have witten, do I entrust to him, my testament: some shall learn patience from it and to do what God bids and not doubt; for all is good, all happy, if it be to do His will, the suffering ye may guess, but not the bliss till ye have tasted it.

And I desire that, having scanned the scroll, he shall, or then or later, as seems to his wisdom wise, deliver all its words to them and her, my father and my mother and my wife, (lo, this once in my life I call her so). I pray Thee, Lord, give the poor words the power to comfort them and strengthen; and, I pray, give the words power to strengthen and stir souls which hear Thee call and pause to count with Thee.

And now, oh Lord, let earth be dim to me, and Heaven come near mine eyes: the time is short, and I am fain for thee. Lord Jesus come.

Now, when Pope Innocent had read the scroll, he bade one with him enter in the house and call the lord Euphemianus thither, and Claudia, and Aglaia. So they came, Aglaia feebly leaning on the two, and questioning them who knew not; so they came; and the Pope pointed them to the dead man, "Behold, for this is one whom you should know." Euphemianus gazed and was perplexed: and the poor purblind mother gazed and peered, "Old Lazarus? no, yes, old Lazarus; asleep or dead? Why is it? is he dead?" but Claudia answered softly "Yes I know; I knew it;" and then, suddenly, borne down by one strong gust of passion, flung herself beside the corpse, her head upon its breast, her arms clasped straining round it, weeping out. And Innocent answered the father's eyes, "This was Alexius, thy long lost son." But yet the father, stricken dumb, looked doubt: Aglaia cried "My boy, where is he then?" and fretfully "This is old Lazarus: where is my boy? show me Alexius."

Then Innocent bade peace, and read the scroll: Euphemianus, with his face hid down between his hands, listened and never stirred; and Claudia listened, weeping silently; but Aglaia whispered always "Is it true? is the tale of Lazarus or of my boy? I cannot understand." And, when 'twas read, Euphemianus gazed upon his son, "Yet did he well?" he said "he was our son, he was her husband: how could it be well? for look upon his mother, what she is." But Claudia rose up tearless, and replied "Alexius did all well: he knew God called:" and Innocent, not tearless, raised his hand and spoke "She answers wisely: he obeyed; he knew, being a very saint of God: let us bless God for him." And they all knelt. But still Aglaia could not understand.

Solomon on the Vanity of the World, A Poem. In Three Books. - Power. Book III.

The Argument

Solomon considers man through the several stages and conditions of life, and concludes, in general, that we are all miserable. He reflects more particularly upon the trouble and uncertainty of greatness and power; gives some instances thereof from Adam down to himself; and still concludes that All Is Vanity. He reasons again upon life, death, and a future being; finds human wisdom too imperfect to resolve his doubts; has recourse to religion; is informed by an angel what shall happen to himself, his family, and his kingdom, till the redemption of Israel; and, upon the whole, resolves to submit his inquiries and anxieties to the will of his Creator.

Come then, my soul: I call thee by that name,Thou busy thing, from whence I know I am;For, knowing that I am, I know thou art,Since that must needs exist which can impart:But how thou camest to be, or whence thy spring,For various of thee priests and poets sing.

Hearest thou submissive, but a lowly birth,Some secret particles of finer earth,A plain effect which Nature must beget,As motion orders, and as atoms meet,Companion of the body's good or ill,From force of instinct more than choice of will,Conscious of fear or valour, joy or pain,As the wild courses of the blood ordain; Who, as degrees of heat and cold prevail, In youth dost flourish, and with age shalt fail, Till, mingled with thy partner's latest breath,Thou fliest, dissolved in air and lost in death.

Or, if thy great existence would aspireTo causes more sublime, of heavenly fireWert thou a spark struck off, a separate ray,Ordain'd to mingle with terrestrial clay,With it condemn'd for certain years to dwell,To grieve its frailties, and its pains to feel,To teach it good and ill, disgrace or fame, Pale it with rage, or redden it with shame,To guide its actions with informing care,In peace to judge, to conquer in the war;Render it agile, witty, valiant, sage,As fits the various course of human age,Till, as the earthly part decays and falls,The captive breaks her prison's mouldering walls,Hovers awhile upon the sad remains,Which now the pile or sepulchre contains, And thence, with liberty unbounded, flies, Impatient to regain her native skies?

Whate'er thou art, where'er ordain'd to go,(Points which we rather may dispute than know)Come on, thou little inmate of this breast,Which for thy sake from passions'l divestFor these, thou say'st, raise all the stormy strife,Which hinder thy repose, and trouble life;Be the fair level of thy actions laid As temperance wills and prudence may persuade By thy affections undisturb'd and clear,Guided to what may great or good appear,And try if life be worth the liver's care.

Amass'd in man, there justly is beheld What through th whole creation has excell'd,The angel's forecast and intelligence:Say, from these glorious seeds what harvest flows?Recount our blessings, and compare our woes:In its true light let clearest reason seeThe man dragg'd out to act, and forced to be;Helpless and naked, on a woman's knees,To be exposed or rear'd as she may please,Feel her neglect, and pine from her disease:His tender eye by too direct a rayWounded, and flying from unpractised day;His heart assaulted by invading air,And beating fervent to the vital war;To his young sense how various forms appear,That strike this wonder, and excite his fear;By his distortions he reveals his pains;He by his tears and by his sighs complains,Till time and use assist the infant wretch,By broken words, and rudiments of speech,His wants in plainer characters to show,And paint more perfect figures of his wo,Condemn'd to sacrifice his childish yearsTo babbling ignorance, and to empty fears;To pass the riper period of his age,Acting his part upon a crowded stage;To lasting toils exposed, and endless cares,To open dangers, and to secret snares;To malice which the vengeful foe intends,And the more dangerous love of seeming friends:His deeds examined by the people's will.Prone to forget the good, and blame the ill;Or, sadly censured in their cursed debate,Who, in the scorner's or the judge's seatDare to condemn the virtue which they hate:Or would he rather leave this frantic scene,And trees and beasts prefer to courts and men,In the remotest wood and lonely grot Certain to meet that worst of evils, thought,Different ideas to his memory brought,Some intricate, as are the pathless woods,Impetuous some, as the descending floods;With anxious doubts, with raging passions torn,No sweet companion near with whom to mourn,He hears the echoing rock return his sighs,And from himself the frighted hermit flies.

Thus, through what path soe'er of life we rove,Rage companies our hate, and grief our love;Vex'd with the present moment's heavy gloom,Why seek we brightness from the years to come?Disturb'd and broken, like a sick man's sleep,Our troubled thoughts to distant prospects leap,Desirous still what flies us to o'ertake;For hope is but the dream of those that wake:But looking back we see the dreadful trainOf woes, anew, which, were we to sustain,We should refuse to tread the path again:Still adding grief, still counting from the first,Judging the latest evil still the worst,And sadly finding each progressive hourHeighten their number and augment their power,Till by one countless sum of woes oppress'd,Hoary with cares, and ignorant of rest,We find the vital springs relax'd and worn,Compell'd our common impotence to mourn:Thus, through the round of age, to childhood we return;Reflecting find, that naked, from the wombWe yesterday came forth; that in the tombNaked again we must to-morrow lie,Born to lament, to labour, and to die.

Pass we the ills which each man feels or dreads,The weight or fall'n or hanging o'er our heads;The bear, the lion, terrors of the plain,The sheepfold scatter'd, and the shepherd slain;The frequent errors of the pathless wood,The giddy precipice, and the dangerous flood;The noisome pestilence, that in open warTerrible, marches through the mid-way air,And scatters death; the arrow that by nightCuts the dank mist, and fatal wings its flight;The billowing snow, and violence of the shower,That from the hills disperse their dreadful store,And o'er the vales collected ruin pour; The worm that gnaws the ripening fruit, sad guest,Canker or locust, hurtful to infestThe blade; while husks elude the tiller's care,And eminence of want distinguishes the year.

Pass we the slow disease, and subtile painWhich our weak frame is destined to sustain; The cruel stone with congregated war,Tearing his bloody way; the cold catarrh,With frequent impulse, and continued strifeWeakening the wasted seeds of irksome life;The gout's fierce rack, the burning fever's rage,The sad experience of decay and age,Herself the sorest ill, while death and ease,Oft and in vain invoked, or to appeaseOr end the grief, with hasty wings recede From the vex'd patient and the sickly bed.

Nought shall it profit that the charming fair,Angelic, softest work of Heaven, draws nearTo the cold shaking paralytic hand,Senseless of Beauty's touch, or Love's command,No longer apt or able to fulfilThe dictates of its feeble master's will.Nought shall the psaltery and the harp avail, The pleasing song, or well-repeated tale,When the quick spirits their warm march forbear,And numbing coldness has unbraced the ear.

The verdant rising of the flowery hill,The vale enamell'd, and the crystal rill,The ocean rolling, and the shelly shore,Beautiful objects, shall delight no more,When the lax'd sinews of the weaken'd eyeDay follows night; the clouds return againAfter the falling of the latter rain;But to the aged blind shall ne'er returnGrateful vicissitude; he still must mourn,The sun, and moon, and every starry light,Eclipsed to him, and lost in everlasting night.

Behold where Age's wretched victim lies;See his head trembling, and his half-closed eyes;Frequent for breath his panting bosom heaves;To broken sleeps his remnant sense he gives,And only by his pains awaking finds he lives.

Loosed by devouring Time, the silver cordDissever'd lies; unhonour'd from the boardThe crystal urn, when broken, is thrown by,And apter utensils their place supply.These things and thou must share one equal lot;Die and be lost, corrupt and be forgot;While still another and another raceShall now supply and now give up the place.From earth all came, to earth must all return,Frail as the cord, and brittle as the urn.

But the terror of these ills suppress'd,And view we man with health and vigour bless'd.Home he returns with the declining sun,His destined task of labour hardly done;Goes forth again with the ascending ray,Again his travail for his bread to pay,And find the ill sufficient to the day.Haply at night he does with honour shunA widow'd daughter, or a dying son;His neighbour's offspring he to-morrow sees,And doubly feels his want in their increase:The next day, and the next, he must attend His foe triumphant, or his buried friend.In every act and turn of life he feels Public calamities, or household ills;The due reward to just desert refused,The trust betray'd, the nuptial bed abused:The judge corrupt, the long-depending cause,And doubtful issue of misconstrued laws:The crafty turns of a dishonest state,And violent will of the wrong-doing great;The venom'd tongue, injurious to his fame,Which nor can wisdom shun nor fair advice reclaim.

Esteem we these, my friend, event and chance,Produced as atoms form their fluttering dance?Or higher yet their essence may we drawFrom destined order and eternal law?Again, my Muse, the cruel doubt repeat?Spring they, I say, from accident or fate?Yet such we find they are, as can controlThe servile actions of our wavering soul;Can fright, can alter, or can chain the will;Their ills all built on life, that fundamental ill.

O fatal search! in which the labouring mind,Still press'd with weight of wo, still hopes to findA shadow of delight, a dream of peace,From years of pain one moment of release;Hoping, at least, she may herself deceive,Against experience willing to believe,Desirous to rejoice, condemn'd to grieve,

Happy the mortal man who now at lastHas through this doleful vale of misery pass'd,Who to his destined stage has carried onThe tedious load, and laid his burden down;Whom the cut brass or wounded marble shows Victor o'er Life, and all her train of woes:He happier yet, who privileged by FateTo shorter labour and a lighter weight,Received but yesterday the gift of breath,Order'd to-morrow to return to death:But, O! beyond description happiest heWho ne'er must roll on life's tumultuous sea;Exempt, must never force the teeming womb,Nor see the sun, nor sink into the tomb.

Who breathes must suffer, and who thinks must mourn!And he alone is bless'd who ne'er was born.

'Yet in thy turn, thou frowning Preacher, hear;Are not these general maxims too severe?Say, cannot power secure its owner's bliss?Are victors bless'd with fame, or kings with ease?'

I tell thee, life is but one common care,And man was born to suffer and to fear.

'But is no rank, no station, no degree,From this contagious taint of sorrow free?'

None, mortal, none: yet in a bolder strainLet me this melancholy truth maintain:But hence, ye worldly and profane, retire,For I adapt my voice and raise my lyreTo notions not by vulgar ear received;Yet still must covet life, and be deceived;Your very fear of death shall make you try To catch the shade of immortality,Wishing on earth to linger, and to savePart of its prey from the devouring grave;To those who may survive ye to bequeathSomething entire, in spite of time and death;A fancied kind of being to retrieve,And in a book, or from a building live.False hope! vain labour! let some ages fly,The dome shall moulder, and the volume die.Wretches, still taught! still will ye think it strangeThat all the parts of this great fabric change.Quit their high station and primeval frame,And lose their shape, their essence and their name?

What pause from wo, what hopes of comfort bringThe name of wise or great, of judge or king?What is a king? a man condemn'd to bearThe public burden of the nation's care;Now crown'd, some angry faction to appease,Now falls a victim to the people's ease;From the first blooming of his ill-taught youthNourish'd flattery, and estranged from truth:At home surrounded by a servile crowd,Prompt to abuse, and in detraction loud;Abroad begirt with men, and swords and spears,His very state acknowledging his fears;Marching amidst a thousand guards, he shows His secret terror of a thousand foes;In war, however prudent, great, or brave,To blind events and fickle chance a slave;Seeking to settle what for ever flies,Sure of the toil, uncertain of the prize.

But he returns with conquest on his brow,Brings up the triumph, and absolves the vow:The captive generals to his car are tied;The joyful citizens, tumultuous tide,Echoing his glory, gratify his pride.What is this triumph? madness, shouts, and noise,One great collection of the people's voice.The wretches he brings back, in chains relateWhat may to-morrow be the victor's fate.The spoils and trophies borne before him showNational loss and epidemic wo, Various distress which he and his may know.Does he not mourn the valiant thousands slain,The heroes, once the glory of the plain,Left in the conflict of the fatal day,Or the wolf's portion, or the vulture's prey?Does he not weep the laurel which he wears,Wet with the soldiers' blood and widows tears?

See where he comes, the darting of the war!See millions crowding round the gilded car!In the vast joys of this ecstatic hour, And full fruition of successful power,One moment and one thought might let him scanThe various turns of life, and fickle state of man.Are the dire images of sad distrust,And popular change, obscured amid the dustThat rises from the victor's rapid wheel?Can the loud clarion or shrill life repelThe inward cries of Care? can Nature's voice,Plaintive, be drown'd, or lessen'd in the noise,Though shouts, as thunder loud, afflict the air,Stun the birds, now released, and shake the ivory chair?

Yon crowd, (he might reflect) yon joyful crowd,Pleased with my honours, in my praise loud,(Should fleeting victory to the vanquish'd go,Should she depress my arms and raise the foe)Would for that foe with equal ardour wait,At the high palace or the crowded gate,With restless rage would pull my statues down,And cast the brass anew to his renown.

O impotent desire of worldly sway!That I who make the triumph of to-day,May of to-morrow's pomp one part appear,Ghastly with wounds, and lifeless on the bier!Then, (vileness of mankind!) then of all theseWhom my dilated eye with labour sees,Would one, alas! repeat me good or great,Wash my pale body, or bewail my fate?Or, march'd I chain'd behind the hostile car,The victor's pastime, and the sport of war,Would one, would one his pitying sorrow lend,Or be so poor to own he was my friend?

Avails it then, O Reason, to be wise?To see this cruel scene with quicker eyes?To know with more distinction to complain,And have superior sense in feeling pain?

Let us resolve, that roll with strictest eye,Where safe from time distinguish'd actions lie, And judge if greatness be exempt from pain,Or pleasure ever may with power remain.Adam, great type, for whom the world was made,The fairest blessing to his arms convey'd,A charming wife; and air, and sea, and land,And all that move therein, to his commandRender'd obedient: say, my pensive Muse,What did these golden promises produce?Scarce tasting life he was of joy bereaved;One day I think in Paradise he lived,Destined the next his journey to pursueWhere wounding thorns and cursed thistles grew.Ere yet he earns his bread, adown his brow,Inclined to earth, his labouring sweat must flow;His limbs must ache, with daily toils oppress'd,Ere long-wish'd night brings necessary rest:Still viewing with regret his darling Eve,He for her follies and his own must grieve.Bewailing still afresh their hapless choice,His ear oft frighted with the imaged voice,Of Heaven when first it thundere'd, oft his view,Aghast, as when the infant lightning flew,And the stern cherub stopp'd the fatal road,Arm'd with the flames of an avenging God,His younger son on the polluted ground,First fruit of death, lies plaintive of a woundGiven by a brother's hand; his eldest birthFlies, mark'd by Heaven, a fugitive o'er earth:Yet why these sorrows heap'd upon the sire,Becomes nor man nor angel to inquire.

Each age sinn'd on, and guild advanced with time; The son still added to the father's crime;Till God arose, and, great in anger, said,Lo! it repenteth me that man was made.And from your deep abyss, ye waters, rise!The frighted angels heard th' Almighty Lord,And o'er the earth from wrathful vials pour'dTempests and storm, obedient to his word.Meantime his providence to Noah gaveThe guard of all that he design'd to save:Exempt from general doom the patriarch stood,Contemn'd the waves, and triumph'd o'er the flood.

The winds fall silent and the waves decrease;The dove brings quiet, and the clive peace;Yet still his heart does inward sorrow feel,Which faith alone forbids him to reveal. If on the backward world his views are cast,'Tis death diffused, and universal waste.Present, (sad prospect!) can he ought descryBut (what affects his melancholy eye)The beauties of the ancient fabric lost,In chains of craggy hill, or lengths of dreary coast?While to high heaven his pious breathings turn'd, Weeping he hoped, and sacrificing mourn'd; When of God's image only eight he foundSnatch'd from the watery grave, and saved from nations drown'd;And of three sons, the future hopes of earth,The seed whence empires must receive their birth,One he foresees excluded heavenly grace,And mark'd with curses fatal to his race.

Abraham, potent prince, the friend of God,Of human ills must bear the destined load,By blood and battles must his power maintain,And slay the monarchs ere he rules the plain; Must deal just portions of a servile lifeTo a proud handmaid and a peevish wife;Must with the mother leave the weeping son,In want to wander and in wilds to groan;Must take his other child, his age's hope,To trembling Moriah's melancholy top,Order'd to drench his knife in filial blood,Destroy his heir, or disobey his God.

Moses beheld that God; but how beheldThe Deity, in radiant beams conceal'd,And clouded in a deep abyss of light!While present too severe for human sight,Nor staying longer than one swift-wing'd nightThe following days, and months, and years, decreedTo fierce encounter, and to toilsome deed:His youth with wants and hardships must engage,Plots and rebellions must disturb his age:Some Corah still arose, some rebel slave,Prompter to sink the state than he to save,And Israel did his rage so far provoke,That what the Godhead wrote the prophet broke. His voice scarce heard, his dictates scarce believed,In camps, in arms, in pilgrimage, he lived,And died obedient to severest law,Forbid to tread the Promised land he saw.

My father's life was one long line of care,A scene of danger and a state of war.The bear's rough gripe and foaming lion's rage,By various turns his threaten'd youth must fearGoliath's lifted sword and Saul's emitted spear.Forlorn he must, and persecuted, fly,Climb the steep mountain, in the cavern lie,And often ask, and be refused to die.

For ever from his manly toils are knownThe weight of power and anguish of a crown.What tongue can speak the restless monarch's woes,When God and Nathan were declared his foes?When every object his offence reviled,The husband murder'd and the wife defiled,The parent's sins impress'd upon the dying child!What heart can think the grief which he sustain',dWhen the King's crime brought vengeance on the land,And the inexorable prophet's voiceGive famine, plague, or war, and bid him fix his choice?

He died; and, oh! may no reflection shed Its poisonous venom on the royal dead:Yet the unwilling truth must be express'dWhich long has labour'd in this pensive breast;Dying he added to my weight of care;He made me to his crimes undoubted heir;Left his unfinish'd murder to his son,And Joab's blood entail'd on Judah's crown.

Young as I was, I hasted to fulfilThe cruel dictates of my parent's will:Of his fair deeds a distant view I took,But turn'd the tube upon his faults to look;Forgot his youth spent in his country's cause,His care of right, his reverence to the laws,But could with joy his years of folly trace,Broken and old in Bathsheba's embraceCould follow him where'er he stray'd from good,And cite his sad example, whilst I trod Paths open to deceit, and track'd with blood.With smiles I could betray, with temper kill;Soon in a brother could a rival view,Watch all his acts, and all his ways pursue:In vain for life he to the altar fled;Ambition and Revenge have certain speed.Even there, my soul, even there he should have fell,But that my interest did my rage conceal:Doubling my crime I promise and deceive,Purpose to slay, whilst swearing to forgive.Treaties, persuasions, sighs, and tears, are vainWith a mean lie cursed vengeance I sustain. Join fraud to force, and policy to power,Till of the destined fugitive secure,In solemn state to parricide I rise,And, as God lives, this day my brother dies.

Be witness to my tears, celestial Muse!In vain I would forget, in vain excuse,Fraternal blood by my direction spilt;In vain on Joab's head transfer the guilt:The deed was acted by the subject's hand,The sword was pointed by the King's command:Mine was the murder; it was mine alone;Years of contrition must the crime atone:Nor can my guilty soul expect reliefBut from a long sincerity of grief.

With an imperfect hand and trembling heart,Her love of truth superior to her art,Already the reflecting Muse has tracedThe mournful figures of my actions past,The pensive goddess has already taughtHow vain is hope, and how vexatious thought;From growing childhood to declining age,How tedious every step, how gloomy every stage,This course of vanity almost complete,Tired in the field of life, I hope retreatIn the still shades of death; for dread, and pain,And grief, will find their shafts elanced in vain,And their points broke, retorted from the head,Safe in the grave, and free among the dead.

Yet tell me, frighted reason! what is death?Blood only stopp'd, and interrupted breath?The utmost limit of a narrow span,And end of motion, which with life began?As smoke that rises from the kindling firesIs seen this moment, and the next expires; As empty clouds by rising winds are lost,Their fleeting forms scarce sooner found than lost,So vanishes our state, so pass our days,So life but opens now, and now decays;The cradle and the tomb, alas! so nigh,To live is scarce distinguish'd from to die.

Cure of the miser's wish and coward's fear,Death only shows us what we knew was near,With courage therefore view the pointed hour, Dread not Death's anger, but expect his power,Nor Nature's law with fruitless sorrow mourn,But die, O mortal man! for thou wast born.

Cautious through doubt, by want of courage wise,To such advice the reasoner still replies.

Yet measuring all the long continued space,Every successive day's repeated race,Since Time first started from his pristine goal,Till he had reach'd that hour wherein my soul Join'd to my body swell'd the womb, I was (At least I think so) nothing; must I passAgain to nothing when this vital breathCeasing, consigns me o'er to rest and death?Must the whole man, amazing thought! returnTo the cold marble or contracted urn?And never shall those particles agreeThat were in life this individual he?But sever'd, must they join the general mass,Through other forms and shapes ordain'd to pass,Nor thought nor image kept of what he was?Does the great word that gave him sense ordainThat life shall never wake that sense again?And will no power his sinking spirits saveFrom the dark caves of death, and chambers of the grave?

Each evening I behold the setting sunWith downward speed into the ocean run;Yet the same light (pass but some fleeting hours)Exerts his vigour and renews his powers;Starts the bright race again: his constant flameRises and sets, returning still the same.I mark the various fury of the winds;These neither seasons guide nor order binds;They now dilate, and now contract their force;Various their speed, but endless is their course,From his first fountain and beginning ooze,Down to the sea each brook and torrent flows;Though sundry drops or leave or swell the stream,The whole still runs, with equal pace the same;Still other waves supply the rising urns,And the eternal flood no want of water mourns.

A flower that does with opening morn arise,And flourishing the day at evening dies;A winged eastern blast, just skimming o'erThe ocean's brow, and sinking on the shore;A fire, whose flames through crackling stubbles fly;A meteor shooting from the summer sky;A bowl adown the bending mountain roll'd; A bubble breaking, and a fable told;A noontide shadow, and a midnight dream,Are emblems which with semblance apt proclaimOur earthly course; but, O my Soul! so fastMust life run off, and death for ever last!

This dark opinion sure is too confined,Else whence this hope and terror of the mind?Does something still, and somewhere, yet remain, Reward or punishment, delight or pain?Say, shall our relics second birth receive?Sleep we to wake, and only die to live?When the sad wife has closed her husband's eyes,And pierced the echoing vault with doleful cries,Lies the pale corpse not yet entirely dead,The spirit only from the body fled,The grosser part of heat and motion void, To be by fire, or worm, or time, destroy'd;The soul, immortal substance, to remainConscious of joy and capable of pain?And if her acts have been directed well,While with her friendly clay she deign'd to dwell,Shall she with safety reach her pristine seat,Find her rest endless, and her bliss complete?And while the buried man we idly mourn,Do angels joy to see his better half return?But if she has deform'd this earthly lifeWith murderous rapine and seditious strife,Amazed, repulsed, and by those angels drivenFrom the ethereal seat and blissful heaven,In everlasting darkness must she lie,Still more unhappy that she cannot die?Amid two seas, on one small point of land,Wearied, uncertain, and amazed, we stand; On either side our thoughts incessant turn, Forward we dread, and looking back we mourn,Losing the present in this dubious haste,And lost ourselves betwixt the future and the past.

These cruel doubts contending in my breast,My reason staggering and my hopes oppress'd,Once more I said, once more I will inquire,What is this little, agile, pervious fire,This flattering motion which we call the Mind,How does she act? and where is she confined?Have we the power to give her as we please?Whence then those evils that obstruct our ease?We happiness pursue: we fly from pain;Yet the pursuit and yet the flight is vain;And while poor Nature labours to be bless'd,By day with pleasure, and by night with rest,Some stronger power eludes our sickly will,Dashes our rising hope with certain ill,And makes us, with reflective trouble, seeThat all is destined which we fancy free.

That power superior then which rules our mind,Is his decree by human prayer inclined?Will he for sacrifice our sorrows ease!And can our tears reverse his firm decrees?Then let religion aid where reason fails,Throw loads of incense in to turn the scales,And let the silent sanctuary show,What from the babbling schools we may not know,How man may shun or bear his destined part of wo.

I said, - and instant bade the priests prepareThe ritual sacrifice and solemn prayer.Select from vulgar herds, with garlands gay,A hundred bulls ascend the sacred way:The artful youth proceed to form the choir,They breathe the flute, or strike the vocal wire.The maids in comely order next advance,They beat the timbrel and instruct the dance:Follows the chosen tribe, from Levi sprung,Chanting by just return the holy song.Along the choir in solemn state they pass'd,- The anxious King came last.The sacred hymn perform'd, my promised vowI paid, and, bowing at the altar low.

Father of heaven! I said, and Judge of earth!Whose word call'd out this universe to birth, By whose kind power and influencing careThe various creatures move, and live, and are;But ceasing once that care, withdrawn that power,They move (alas!) and live, and are no more;Omniscient Master, omnipresent King, To thee, to thee my last distress I bring.

Thou that canst still the raging of the seas,Chain up the winds, and bid the tempests cease,Redeem my shipwreck'd soul from raging gustsOf cruel passion and deceitful lusts;From storms of rage and dangerous rocks of pride,Let thy strong hand this little vessel guide,(It was thy hand that made it) through the tideImpetuous of this life, let thy commandDirect my course, and bring me safe to land.

If, while this wearied flesh draws fleeting breath,Not satisfied with life, afraid of death,It haply be thy will that I should knowGlimpse of delight, or pause from anxious wo,From now, from instant now, great Sire! dispelThe clouds that press my soul; from now revealA gracious beam of light; from now inspireMy tongue to sing, my hand to touch the lyre;My open'd thought to joyous prospects raise,And for thy mercy let me sing thy praise:Or, if thy will ordains, I still shall waitSome new hereafter and a future state,Permit me strength my weight of wo to bear,And raise my mind superior to my care.Let me, howe'er unable to explainThe secret lab'rinths of thy ways to man,With humble zeal confess thy awful power,Still weeping hope, and wondering, still adore:So in my conquest be thy might declared,And for thy justice be thy name revered.

My prayer scarce ended, a stupendous gloomDarkens the air; loud thunder shakes the dome:To the beginning miracle succeedAn awful silence and religious dread.Sudden breaks forth a more than common day,The sacred wood, which on the alter layUntouch'd, unlighted glows -Ambrosial odour, such as never flowsFrom Arab's gum or the Sabaean rose,Does round the air evolving scents diffuse:The holy ground is wet with heavenly dews:Celestial music (such Jessides' lyre,Such Miriam's timbrel would in vain require)Strikes to my thought through admiring ear,With ecstasy too fine, and pleasure hard to bear:And, lo! what sees my ravish'd eye? what feelsMy wondering soul? an opening cloud revealsA heavenly form embodied and array'dWith robes of light, I heard; the angel said,

Cease, Man, of women born, to hope reliefFrom daily trouble and continued grief.Thy hope of joy deliver to the wind:Suppress thy passions, and prepare thy mind.Free and familiar with misfortune grow;Be used to sorrow, and inured to wo. By weakening toil and hoary age o'ercome,See thy decrease, and hasting to thy tomb.Leave to thy children tumult, strife, and war,Portions of toil, and legacies of care:Send the successive ills through ages down,And let each weeping father tell his sonThat, deeper struck, and more distinctly grieved,He must augment the sorrows he received.

The child to whose success thy hope is bound,Ere thou art scarce interr'd or he is crown'd, To lust of arbitrary sway inclined,(That cursed poison to the prince's mind!)Shall from thy dictates and his duty rove,And lose his great defence, his people's love:Ill counsell'd, vanquish'd, fugitive, disgraced,Shall mourn the fame of Jacob's strength effaced:Shall sigh the King diminish'd, and the crownWith lessen'd rays descending to his son:Shall see the wreaths his grandsire knew to reapBy active toil and military sweat,Rining incline their sickly leaves, and shed Their falling honours from his giddy head:By arms or prayer unable to assuageDomestic horror and intestine rage,Shall from the victor and the vanquish'd fear,From Israel's arrow and from Judah's spear:Shall cast his wearied limbs on Jordan's flood,By brothers' arms disturb'd, and stain'd with kindred blood.

Hence labouring years shall weep their destined race,Charged with ill omens, sully'd with disgrace;Time, by necessity compell'd, shall goThrough scenes of war, and epochas of wo:The empire lessen',d in a parted streamShall lose its course -Indulge thy tears; the Heathen shall blaspheme;Judah shall fall, oppress'd by grief and shame,And men shall from her ruins know her fame.

New Egypts yet and second bonds remain,A harsher Pharaoh, and a heavier chain.Again, obedient to a dire command,Thy captive sons shall leave the promised land;Their name more low, their servitude more vile, Shall on Euphrates' bank renew the grief of Nile.

These pointed spires that wound the ambient sky,Inglorious change shall in destruction lieLow, levell'd with the dust, their heights unknown, Or measured by their ruin. Yonder throne, For lasting glory built, design'd the seatOf kings for ever bless'd, for ever great,Removed by the invader's barbarous hand,Shall grace his triumph in a foreign land:The tyrant shall demand yon' sacred loadOf gold and vessels set apart to God,Then by bile hands to common use debased,Shall send them flowing round his drunken feast,With sacrilegious taunt and impious jest.

Twice fourteen ages shall their way complete,Empires by various turns shall rise and set,While thy abandon'd tribes shall only knowA different master and a change of wo;With downcast eyelids, and with looks aghast,Shall dread the future or bewail the past.Afflicted Israel shall sit weeping down,Fast by the streams where Babel's waters run,Their harps upon the neighbouring willows hung, Nor joyous hymn encouraging their tongue, Nor cheerful dance their feet; with toil oppress'd, Their wearied limbs aspiring but to rest.In the reflective stream the sighing bride,Viewing her charms impair'd, abash'd shall hideHer pensive head, and in her languid faceThe bridegroom shall foresee his sickly race,While ponderous fetters vex their close embraceWith irksome anguish then your priests shall mournTheir long neglected feasts despair'd return,And sad oblivion of their solemn days:Thenceforth their voices they shall only raise,Louder to weep. By day your frighted seersShall call for fountains to express their tears,And wish their eyes were floods: by night, from dreamsOf opening gulfs, black storms, and raging flames,Starting amazed, shall to the people showEmblems of heavenly wrath, and mystic types of wo.

The captives, as their tyrant shall requireThat they should breathe the song and touch the lyre,Shall say, Can Jacob's servile race rejoice,Untuned the music, and disused the voice?What can we play, (they shall discourse) how singIn foreign lands, and to a barbarous king? We and our fathers, from our childhood bredTo watch the cruel victor's eye, to dreadThe arbitrary lash, to bend, to grieve,(Outcast of mortal race) can we conceiveImage of ought delightful, soft, or gay?Alas! when we have toil the longsome day,The fullest bliss our hearts aspire to know,Is but some interval from active wo;In broken rest and startling sleep to mourn,Till morn the tyrant and the scourge return:Bred up in grief, can pleasure be our theme?Our endless anguish does not nature claim?Reason and sorrow are to us the same.Alas! with wild amazement we requireIf idle Folly was not Pleasure's sire?Madness, we fancy, gave an ill-timed birth.

This is the series of perpetual woWhich thou, alas! and thine, are born to know.Illustrious wretch! repine not nor reply;View not what Heaven ordains with reason's eye;Too bright the object is, the distance is too high.The man who would resolve the work of fateMay limit number and make crooked straight:Stop thy inquiry, then, and curb thy sense,'Tis God who must dispose and man sustain,Born to endure, forbidden to complain:Thy sum of life must his decrees fufil;What derogates from his command is ill,And that alone is good which centres in his will.

Yet that thy labouring senses may not droop,Lost to delight, and destitute of hope, Remark what I, God's messenger, averFrom him who neither can deceive nor err.The land, at length redeem'd, shall cease to mourn,Shall from her sad captivity return:Sion shall raise her long-dejected head,And in her courts the law again be read,Again the glorious temple shall arise,And with now lustre pierce the neighbouring skies:The promised seat of empire shall againCover the mountain and command the plain;And from thy race distinguish'd, One shall springGreater in act than victor, more than king;In dignity and power sent down from heavenTo succour earth. To him, to him, 'tis givenPassion, and care, and anguish, to destroy;Through him soft peace and plenitude of joy Perpetual o'er the world redeem'd shall flow;No more may man inquire or angel know.

Now, Solomon, remembering who thou art,Act through thy remnant life a decent part:Go forth; be strong; with patience and with carePerform and suffer; to thyself severe,Gracious to others, thy desires suppress'd,Diffused thy virtues, first of men, be best.Thy sum of duty let two words contain,O may they graven in thy heart remain!Be humble and be just. The angel said:With upward speed his agile wings he spread,Whilst on the holy ground I prostrate lay,By various doubts impell'd, or to obeyOr to object; at length (my mournful lookHeavenward erect) determined, thus I spoke:

Supreme, all-wise, eternal Potentate!Sole author, sole disposer, of our fate!Enthroned in light and immortality,Whom no man fully sees, and none can see!Original of Beings! Power divine!Since that I live, that I think, is thine;Benign Creator! let thy plastic handDispose its own effect: let thy commandRestore, great Father, thy instructed son,And in my act may thy great will be done.

The Iliad: Book 23

Thus did they make their moan throughout the city, while theAchaeans when they reached the Hellespont went back every man to hisown ship. But Achilles would not let the Myrmidons go, and spoke tohis brave comrades saying, "Myrmidons, famed horsemen and my owntrusted friends, not yet, forsooth, let us unyoke, but with horseand chariot draw near to the body and mourn Patroclus, in due honourto the dead. When we have had full comfort of lamentation we willunyoke our horses and take supper all of us here."On this they all joined in a cry of wailing and Achilles led them intheir lament. Thrice did they drive their chariots all sorrowing roundthe body, and Thetis stirred within them a still deeper yearning.The sands of the seashore and the men's armour were wet with theirweeping, so great a minister of fear was he whom they had lost.Chief in all their mourning was the son of Peleus: he laid hisbloodstained hand on the breast of his friend. "Fare well," hecried, "Patroclus, even in the house of Hades. I will now do allthat I erewhile promised you; I will drag Hector hither and let dogsdevour him raw; twelve noble sons of Trojans will I also slay beforeyour pyre to avenge you."As he spoke he treated the body of noble Hector with contumely,laying it at full length in the dust beside the bier of Patroclus. Theothers then put off every man his armour, took the horses from theirchariots, and seated themselves in great multitude by the ship ofthe fleet descendant of Aeacus, who thereon feasted them with anabundant funeral banquet. Many a goodly ox, with many a sheep andbleating goat did they butcher and cut up; many a tusked boarmoreover, fat and well-fed, did they singe and set to roast in theflames of Vulcan; and rivulets of blood flowed all round the placewhere the body was lying.Then the princes of the Achaeans took the son of Peleus toAgamemnon, but hardly could they persuade him to come with them, sowroth was he for the death of his comrade. As soon as they reachedAgamemnon's tent they told the serving-men to set a large tripodover the fire in case they might persuade the son of Peleus 'to washthe clotted gore from this body, but he denied them sternly, and sworeit with a solemn oath, saying, "Nay, by King Jove, first and mightiestof all gods, it is not meet that water should touch my body, till Ihave laid Patroclus on the flames, have built him a barrow, and shavedmy head- for so long as I live no such second sorrow shall ever drawnigh me. Now, therefore, let us do all that this sad festival demands,but at break of day, King Agamemnon, bid your men bring wood, andprovide all else that the dead may duly take into the realm ofdarkness; the fire shall thus burn him out of our sight the sooner,and the people shall turn again to their own labours."Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said. They made hasteto prepare the meal, they ate, and every man had his full share sothat all were satisfied. As soon as they had had had enough to eat anddrink, the others went to their rest each in his own tent, but the sonof Peleus lay grieving among his Myrmidons by the shore of thesounding sea, in an open place where the waves came surging in oneafter another. Here a very deep slumber took hold upon him and easedthe burden of his sorrows, for his limbs were weary with chasingHector round windy Ilius. Presently the sad spirit of Patroclus drewnear him, like what he had been in stature, voice, and the light ofhis beaming eyes, clad, too, as he had been clad in life. The spirithovered over his head and said-"You sleep, Achilles, and have forgotten me; you loved me living,but now that I am dead you think for me no further. Bury me with allspeed that I may pass the gates of Hades; the ghosts, vain shadowsof men that can labour no more, drive me away from them; they will notyet suffer me to join those that are beyond the river, and I wanderall desolate by the wide gates of the house of Hades. Give me now yourhand I pray you, for when you have once given me my dues of fire,never shall I again come forth out of the house of Hades. Nevermoreshall we sit apart and take sweet counsel among the living; thecruel fate which was my birth-right has yawned its wide jaws aroundme- nay, you too Achilles, peer of gods, are doomed to die beneath thewall of the noble Trojans."One prayer more will I make you, if you will grant it; let not mybones be laid apart from yours, Achilles, but with them; even as wewere brought up together in your own home, what time Menoetius broughtme to you as a child from Opoeis because by a sad spite I had killedthe son of Amphidamas- not of set purpose, but in childish quarrelover the dice. The knight Peleus took me into his house, entreatedme kindly, and named me to be your squire; therefore let our bones liein but a single urn, the two-handled golden vase given to you byyour mother."And Achilles answered, "Why, true heart, are you come hither tolay these charges upon me? will of my own self do all as you havebidden me. Draw closer to me, let us once more throw our arms aroundone another, and find sad comfort in the sharing of our sorrows."He opened his arms towards him as he spoke and would have claspedhim in them, but there was nothing, and the spirit vanished as avapour, gibbering and whining into the earth. Achilles sprang to hisfeet, smote his two hands, and made lamentation saying, "Of a trutheven in the house of Hades there are ghosts and phantoms that haveno life in them; all night long the sad spirit of Patroclus hashovered over head making piteous moan, telling me what I am to dofor him, and looking wondrously like himself."Thus did he speak and his words set them all weeping and mourningabout the poor dumb dead, till rosy-fingered morn appeared. ThenKing Agamemnon sent men and mules from all parts of the camp, to bringwood, and Meriones, squire to Idomeneus, was in charge over them. Theywent out with woodmen's axes and strong ropes in their hands, andbefore them went the mules. Up hill and down dale did they go, bystraight ways and crooked, and when they reached the heights ofmany-fountained Ida, they laid their axes to the roots of many atall branching oak that came thundering down as they felled it. Theysplit the trees and bound them behind the mules, which then wendedtheir way as they best could through the thick brushwood on to theplain. All who had been cutting wood bore logs, for so Meriones squireto Idomeneus had bidden them, and they threw them down in a lineupon the seashore at the place where Achilles would make a mightymonument for Patroclus and for himself.When they had thrown down their great logs of wood over the wholeground, they stayed all of them where they were, but Achillesordered his brave Myrmidons to gird on their armour, and to yokeeach man his horses; they therefore rose, girded on their armour andmounted each his chariot- they and their charioteers with them. Thechariots went before, and they that were on foot followed as a cloudin their tens of thousands after. In the midst of them his comradesbore Patroclus and covered him with the locks of their hair which theycut off and threw upon his body. Last came Achilles with his headbowed for sorrow, so noble a comrade was he taking to the house ofHades.When they came to the place of which Achilles had told them theylaid the body down and built up the wood. Achilles then bethoughthim of another matter. He went a space away from the pyre, and cut offthe yellow lock which he had let grow for the river Spercheius. Helooked all sorrowfully out upon the dark sea, and said, "Spercheius,in vain did my father Peleus vow to you that when I returned home tomy loved native land I should cut off this lock and offer you a holyhecatomb; fifty she-goats was I to sacrifice to you there at yoursprings, where is your grove and your altar fragrant withburnt-offerings. Thus did my father vow, but you have not fulfilledhis prayer; now, therefore, that I shall see my home no more, I givethis lock as a keepsake to the hero Patroclus."As he spoke he placed the lock in the hands of his dear comrade, andall who stood by were filled with yearning and lamentation. The sunwould have gone down upon their mourning had not Achilles presentlysaid to Agamemnon, "Son of Atreus, for it is to you that the peoplewill give ear, there is a time to mourn and a time to cease frommourning; bid the people now leave the pyre and set about gettingtheir dinners: we, to whom the dead is dearest, will see to what iswanted here, and let the other princes also stay by me."When King Agamemnon heard this he dismissed the people to theirships, but those who were about the dead heaped up wood and built apyre a hundred feet this way and that; then they laid the dead allsorrowfully upon the top of it. They flayed and dressed many fat sheepand oxen before the pyre, and Achilles took fat from all of them andwrapped the body therein from head to foot, heaping the flayedcarcases all round it. Against the bier he leaned two-handled jarsof honey and unguents; four proud horses did he then cast upon thepyre, groaning the while he did so. The dead hero had hadhouse-dogs; two of them did Achilles slay and threw upon the pyre;he also put twelve brave sons of noble Trojans to the sword and laidthem with the rest, for he was full of bitterness and fury. Then hecommitted all to the resistless and devouring might of the fire; hegroaned aloud and callid on his dead comrade by name. "Fare well,"he cried, "Patroclus, even in the house of Hades; I am now doing allthat I have promised you. Twelve brave sons of noble Trojans shall theflames consume along with yourself, but dogs, not fire, shall devourthe flesh of Hector son of Priam."Thus did he vaunt, but the dogs came not about the body of Hector,for Jove's daughter Venus kept them off him night and day, andanointed him with ambrosial oil of roses that his flesh might not betorn when Achilles was dragging him about. Phoebus Apollo moreoversent a dark cloud from heaven to earth, which gave shade to thewhole place where Hector lay, that the heat of the sun might not parchhis body.Now the pyre about dead Patroclus would not kindle. Achillestherefore bethought him of another matter; he went apart and prayed tothe two winds Boreas and Zephyrus vowing them goodly offerings. Hemade them many drink-offerings from the golden cup and besought themto come and help him that the wood might make haste to kindle andthe dead bodies be consumed. Fleet Iris heard him praying andstarted off to fetch the winds. They were holding high feast in thehouse of boisterous Zephyrus when Iris came running up to the stonethreshold of the house and stood there, but as soon as they set eyeson her they all came towards her and each of them called her to him,but Iris would not sit down. "I cannot stay," she said, "I must goback to the streams of Oceanus and the land of the Ethiopians whoare offering hecatombs to the immortals, and I would have my share;but Achilles prays that Boreas and shrill Zephyrus will come to him,and he vows them goodly offerings; he would have you blow upon thepyre of Patroclus for whom all the Achaeans are lamenting."With this she left them, and the two winds rose with a cry that rentthe air and swept the clouds before them. They blew on and on untilthey came to the sea, and the waves rose high beneath them, but whenthey reached Troy they fell upon the pyre till the mighty flamesroared under the blast that they blew. All night long did they blowhard and beat upon the fire, and all night long did Achilles grasp hisdouble cup, drawing wine from a mixing-bowl of gold, and callingupon the spirit of dead Patroclus as he poured it upon the grounduntil the earth was drenched. As a father mourns when he is burningthe bones of his bridegroom son whose death has wrung the hearts ofhis parents, even so did Achilles mourn while burning the body ofhis comrade, pacing round the bier with piteous groaning andlamentation.At length as the Morning Star was beginning to herald the lightwhich saffron-mantled Dawn was soon to suffuse over the sea, theflames fell and the fire began to die. The winds then went home beyondthe Thracian sea, which roared and boiled as they swept over it. Theson of Peleus now turned away from the pyre and lay down, overcomewith toil, till he fell into a sweet slumber. Presently they whowere about the son of Atreus drew near in a body, and roused himwith the noise and tramp of their coming. He sat upright and said,"Son of Atreus, and all other princes of the Achaeans, first pourred wine everywhere upon the fire and quench it; let us then gatherthe bones of Patroclus son of Menoetius, singling them out withcare; they are easily found, for they lie in the middle of the pyre,while all else, both men and horses, has been thrown in a heap andburned at the outer edge. We will lay the bones in a golden urn, intwo layers of fat, against the time when I shall myself go down intothe house of Hades. As for the barrow, labour not to raise a great onenow, but such as is reasonable. Afterwards, let those Achaeans who maybe left at the ships when I am gone, build it both broad and high."Thus he spoke and they obeyed the word of the son of Peleus. Firstthey poured red wine upon the thick layer of ashes and quenched thefire. With many tears they singled out the whitened bones of theirloved comrade and laid them within a golden urn in two layers offat: they then covered the urn with a linen cloth and took it insidethe tent. They marked off the circle where the barrow should be,made a foundation for it about the pyre, and forthwith heaped up theearth. When they had thus raised a mound they were going away, butAchilles stayed the people and made them sit in assembly. He broughtprizes from the ships-cauldrons, tripods, horses and mules, nobleoxen, women with fair girdles, and swart iron.The first prize he offered was for the chariot races- a womanskilled in all useful arts, and a three-legged cauldron that hadears for handles, and would hold twenty-two measures. This was for theman who came in first. For the second there was a six-year old mare,unbroken, and in foal to a he-ass; the third was to have a goodlycauldron that had never yet been on the fire; it was still bright aswhen it left the maker, and would hold four measures. The fourth prizewas two talents of gold, and the fifth a two-handled urn as yetunsoiled by smoke. Then he stood up and spoke among the Argivessaying-"Son of Atreus, and all other Achaeans, these are the prizes thatlie waiting the winners of the chariot races. At any other time Ishould carry off the first prize and take it to my own tent; youknow how far my steeds excel all others- for they are immortal;Neptune gave them to my father Peleus, who in his turn gave them tomyself; but I shall hold aloof, I and my steeds that have lost theirbrave and kind driver, who many a time has washed them in clearwater and anointed their manes with oil. See how they stand weepinghere, with their manes trailing on the ground in the extremity oftheir sorrow. But do you others set yourselves in order throughout thehost, whosoever has confidence in his horses and in the strength ofhis chariot."Thus spoke the son of Peleus and the drivers of chariots bestirredthemselves. First among them all uprose Eumelus, king of men, son ofAdmetus, a man excellent in horsemanship. Next to him rose mightyDiomed son of Tydeus; he yoked the Trojan horses which he had takenfrom Aeneas, when Apollo bore him out of the fight. Next to him,yellow-haired Menelaus son of Atreus rose and yoked his fleethorses, Agamemnon's mare Aethe, and his own horse Podargus. The marehad been given to Agamemnon by echepolus son of Anchises, that hemight not have to follow him to Ilius, but might stay at home and takehis ease; for Jove had endowed him with great wealth and he lived inspacious Sicyon. This mare, all eager for the race, did Menelaus putunder the yoke.Fourth in order Antilochus, son to noble Nestor son of Neleus,made ready his horses. These were bred in Pylos, and his father cameup to him to give him good advice of which, however, he stood in butlittle need. "Antilochus," said Nestor, "you are young, but Jove andNeptune have loved you well, and have made you an excellenthorseman. I need not therefore say much by way of instruction. You areskilful at wheeling your horses round the post, but the horsesthemselves are very slow, and it is this that will, I fear, mar yourchances. The other drivers know less than you do, but their horses arefleeter; therefore, my dear son, see if you cannot hit upon someartifice whereby you may insure that the prize shall not slipthrough your fingers. The woodman does more by skill than by bruteforce; by skill the pilot guides his storm-tossed barque over the sea,and so by skill one driver can beat another. If a man go wide inrounding this way and that, whereas a man who knows what he is doingmay have worse horses, but he will keep them well in hand when he seesthe doubling-post; he knows the precise moment at which to pull therein, and keeps his eye well on the man in front of him. I will giveyou this certain token which cannot escape your notice. There is astump of a dead tree-oak or pine as it may be- some six feet above theground, and not yet rotted away by rain; it stands at the fork ofthe road; it has two white stones set one on each side, and there is aclear course all round it. It may have been a monument to some onelong since dead, or it may have been used as a doubling-post in daysgone by; now, however, it has been fixed on by Achilles as the markround which the chariots shall turn; hug it as close as you can, butas you stand in your chariot lean over a little to the left; urge onyour right-hand horse with voice and lash, and give him a looserein, but let the left-hand horse keep so close in, that the nave ofyour wheel shall almost graze the post; but mind the stone, or youwill wound your horses and break your chariot in pieces, which wouldbe sport for others but confusion for yourself. Therefore, my dearson, mind well what you are about, for if you can be first to roundthe post there is no chance of any one giving you the goby later,not even though you had Adrestus's horse Arion behind you horsewhich is of divine race- or those of Laomedon, which are the noblestin this country."When Nestor had made an end of counselling his son he sat down inhis place, and fifth in order Meriones got ready his horses. They thenall mounted their chariots and cast lots.- Achilles shook thehelmet, and the lot of Antilochus son of Nestor fell out first; nextcame that of King Eumelus, and after his, those of Menelaus son ofAtreus and of Meriones. The last place fell to the lot of Diomed sonof Tydeus, who was the best man of them all. They took their places inline; Achilles showed them the doubling-post round which they wereto turn, some way off upon the plain; here he stationed his father'sfollower Phoenix as umpire, to note the running, and report truly.At the same instant they all of them lashed their horses, struckthem with the reins, and shouted at them with all their might. Theyflew full speed over the plain away from the ships, the dust rose fromunder them as it were a cloud or whirlwind, and their manes were allflying in the wind. At one moment the chariots seemed to touch theground, and then again they bounded into the air; the drivers stooderect, and their hearts beat fast and furious in their lust ofvictory. Each kept calling on his horses, and the horses scoured theplain amid the clouds of dust that they raised.It was when they were doing the last part of the course on their wayback towards the sea that their pace was strained to the utmost and itwas seen what each could do. The horses of the descendant of Pheresnow took the lead, and close behind them came the Trojan stallionsof Diomed. They seemed as if about to mount Eumelus's chariot, andhe could feel their warm breath on his back and on his broadshoulders, for their heads were close to him as they flew over thecourse. Diomed would have now passed him, or there would have been adead heat, but Phoebus Apollo to spite him made him drop his whip.Tears of anger fell from his eyes as he saw the mares going onfaster than ever, while his own horses lost ground through hishaving no whip. Minerva saw the trick which Apollo had played theson of Tydeus, so she brought him his whip and put spirit into hishorses; moreover she went after the son of Admetus in a rage and brokehis yoke for him; the mares went one to one side the course, and theother to the other, and the pole was broken against the ground.Eumelus was thrown from his chariot close to the wheel; his elbows,mouth, and nostrils were all torn, and his forehead was bruisedabove his eyebrows; his eyes filled with tears and he could find noutterance. But the son of Tydeus turned his horses aside and shotfar ahead, for Minerva put fresh strength into them and covered Diomedhimself with glory.Menelaus son of Atreus came next behind him, but Antilochus calledto his father's horses. "On with you both," he cried, "and do yourvery utmost. I do not bid you try to beat the steeds of the son ofTydeus, for Minerva has put running into them, and has coveredDiomed with glory; but you must overtake the horses of the son ofAtreus and not be left behind, or Aethe who is so fleet will tauntyou. Why, my good fellows, are you lagging? I tell you, and it shallsurely be- Nestor will keep neither of you, but will put both of youto the sword, if we win any the worse a prize through yourcarelessness, fly after them at your utmost speed; I will hit on aplan for passing them in a narrow part of the way, and it shall notfail me."They feared the rebuke of their master, and for a short space wentquicker. Presently Antilochus saw a narrow place where the road hadsunk. The ground was broken, for the winter's rain had gathered andhad worn the road so that the whole place was deepened. Menelaus wasmaking towards it so as to get there first, for fear of a foul, butAntilochus turned his horses out of the way, and followed him a littleon one side. The son of Atreus was afraid and shouted out,"Antilochus, you are driving recklessly; rein in your horses; the roadis too narrow here, it will be wider soon, and you can pass me then;if you foul my chariot you may bring both of us to a mischief."But Antilochus plied his whip, and drove faster, as though he hadnot heard him. They went side by side for about as far as a youngman can hurl a disc from his shoulder when he is trying hisstrength, and then Menelaus's mares drew behind, for he left offdriving for fear the horses should foul one another and upset thechariots; thus, while pressing on in quest of victory, they might bothcome headlong to the ground. Menelaus then upbraided Antilochus andsaid, "There is no greater trickster living than you are; go, andbad luck go with you; the Achaeans say not well that you haveunderstanding, and come what may you shall not bear away the prizewithout sworn protest on my part."Then he called on his horses and said to them, "Keep your pace,and slacken not; the limbs of the other horses will weary soonerthan yours, for they are neither of them young."The horses feared the rebuke of their master, and went faster, sothat they were soon nearly up with the others.Meanwhile the Achaeans from their seats were watching how the horseswent, as they scoured the plain amid clouds of their own dust.Idomeneus captain of the Cretans was first to make out the running,for he was not in the thick of the crowd, but stood on the mostcommanding part of the ground. The driver was a long way off, butIdomeneus could hear him shouting, and could see the foremost horsequite plainly- a chestnut with a round white star, like the moon, onits forehead. He stood up and said among the Argives, "My friends,princes and counsellors of the Argives, can you see the running aswell as I can? There seems to be another pair in front now, andanother driver; those that led off at the start must have beendisabled out on the plain. I saw them at first making their wayround the doubling-post, but now, though I search the plain of Troy, Icannot find them. Perhaps the reins fell from the driver's hand sothat he lost command of his horses at the doubling-post, and could notturn it. I suppose he must have been thrown out there, and brokenhis chariot, while his mares have left the course and gone offwildly in a panic. Come up and see for yourselves, I cannot make outfor certain, but the driver seems an Aetolian by descent, ruler overthe Argives, brave Diomed the son of Tydeus."Ajax the son of Oileus took him up rudely and said, "Idomeneus,why should you be in such a hurry to tell us all about it, when themares are still so far out upon the plain? You are none of theyoungest, nor your eyes none of the sharpest, but you are alwayslaying down the law. You have no right to do so, for there arebetter men here than you are. Eumelus's horses are in front now, asthey always have been, and he is on the chariot holding the reins."The captain of the Cretans was angry, and answered, "Ajax you are anexcellent railer, but you have no judgement, and are wanting in muchelse as well, for you have a vile temper. I will wager you a tripod orcauldron, and Agamemnon son of Atreus shall decide whose horses arefirst. You will then know to your cost."Ajax son of Oileus was for making him an angry answer, and therewould have been yet further brawling between them, had not Achillesrisen in his place and said, "Cease your railing Ajax and Idomeneus;it is not you would be scandalised if you saw any one else do thelike: sit down and keep your eyes on the horses; they are speedingtowards the winning-post and will be bere directly. You will then bothof you know whose horses are first, and whose come after."As he was speaking, the son of Tydeus came driving in, plying hiswhip lustily from his shoulder, and his horses stepping high as theyflew over the course. The sand and grit rained thick on the driver,and the chariot inlaid with gold and tin ran close behind his fleethorses. There was little trace of wheel-marks in the fine dust, andthe horses came flying in at their utmost speed. Diomed stayed them inthe middle of the crowd, and the sweat from their manes and chestsfell in streams on to the ground. Forthwith he sprang from hisgoodly chariot, and leaned his whip against his horses' yoke; braveSthenelus now lost no time, but at once brought on the prize, and gavethe woman and the ear-handled cauldron to his comrades to take away.Then he unyoked the horses.Next after him came in Antilochus of the race of Neleus, who hadpassed Menelaus by a trick and not by the fleetness of his horses; buteven so Menelaus came in as close behind him as the wheel is to thehorse that draws both the chariot and its master. The end hairs of ahorse's tail touch the tyre of the wheel, and there is never muchspace between wheel and horse when the chariot is going; Menelauswas no further than this behind Antilochus, though at first he hadbeen a full disc's throw behind him. He had soon caught him upagain, for Agamemnon's mare Aethe kept pulling stronger andstronger, so that if the course had been longer he would have passedhim, and there would not even have been a dead heat. Idomeneus's bravesquire Meriones was about a spear's cast behind Menelaus. His horseswere slowest of all, and he was the worst driver. Last of them allcame the son of Admetus, dragging his chariot and driving his horseson in front. When Achilles saw him he was sorry, and stood up amongthe Argives saying, "The best man is coming in last. Let us give him aprize for it is reasonable. He shall have the second, but the firstmust go to the son of Tydeus."Thus did he speak and the others all of them applauded his saying,and were for doing as he had said, but Nestor's son Antilochus stoodup and claimed his rights from the son of Peleus. "Achilles," said he,"I shall take it much amiss if you do this thing; you would rob meof my prize, because you think Eumelus's chariot and horses werethrown out, and himself too, good man that he is. He should haveprayed duly to the immortals; he would not have come in fast if he haddone so. If you are sorry for him and so choose, you have much gold inyour tents, with bronze, sheep, cattle and horses. Take something fromthis store if you would have the Achaeans speak well of you, andgive him a better prize even than that which you have now offered; butI will not give up the mare, and he that will fight me for her, lethim come on."Achilles smiled as he heard this, and was pleased with Antilochus,who was one of his dearest comrades. So he said-"Antilochus, if you would have me find Eumelus another prize, I willgive him the bronze breastplate with a rim of tin running all round itwhich I took from Asteropaeus. It will be worth much money to him."He bade his comrade Automedon bring the breastplate from his tent,and he did so. Achilles then gave it over to Eumelus, who receivedit gladly.But Menelaus got up in a rage, furiously angry with Antilochus. Anattendant placed his staff in his hands and bade the Argives keepsilence: the hero then addressed them. "Antilochus," said he, "what isthis from you who have been so far blameless? You have made me cut apoor figure and baulked my horses by flinging your own in front ofthem, though yours are much worse than mine are; therefore, Oprinces and counsellors of the Argives, judge between us and show nofavour, lest one of the Achaeans say, 'Menelaus has got the marethrough lying and corruption; his horses were far inferior toAntilochus's, but he has greater weight and influence.' Nay, I willdetermine the matter myself, and no man will blame me, for I shalldo what is just. Come here, Antilochus, and stand, as our custom is,whip in hand before your chariot and horses; lay your hand on yoursteeds, and swear by earth-encircling Neptune that you did notpurposely and guilefully get in the way of my horses."And Antilochus answered, "Forgive me; I am much younger, KingMenelaus, than you are; you stand higher than I do and are thebetter man of the two; you know how easily young men are betrayed intoindiscretion; their tempers are more hasty and they have lessjudgement; make due allowances therefore, and bear with me; I willof my own accord give up the mare that I have won, and if you claimany further chattel from my own possessions, I would rather yield itto you, at once, than fall from your good graces henceforth, and dowrong in the sight of heaven."The son of Nestor then took the mare and gave her over toMenelaus, whose anger was thus appeased; as when dew falls upon afield of ripening corn, and the lands are bristling with theharvest- even so, O Menelaus, was your heart made glad within you.He turned to Antilochus and said, "Now, Antilochus, angry though Ihave been, I can give way to you of my own free will; you have neverbeen headstrong nor ill-disposed hitherto, but this time your youthhas got the better of your judgement; be careful how you outwit yourbetters in future; no one else could have brought me round soeasily, but your good father, your brother, and yourself have all ofyou had infinite trouble on my behalf; I therefore yield to yourentreaty, and will give up the mare to you, mine though it indeedbe; the people will thus see that I am neither harsh nor vindictive."With this he gave the mare over to Antilochus's comrade Noemon,and then took the cauldron. Meriones, who had come in fourth,carried off the two talents of gold, and the fifth prize, thetwo-handled urn, being unawarded, Achilles gave it to Nestor, going upto him among the assembled Argives and saying, "Take this, my good oldfriend, as an heirloom and memorial of the funeral of Patroclus- foryou shall see him no more among the Argives. I give you this prizethough you cannot win one; you can now neither wrestle nor fight,and cannot enter for the javelin-match nor foot-races, for the hand ofage has been laid heavily upon you."So saying he gave the urn over to Nestor, who received it gladly andanswered, "My son, all that you have said is true; there is nostrength now in my legs and feet, nor can I hit out with my hands fromeither shoulder. Would that I were still young and strong as whenthe Epeans were burying King Amarynceus in Buprasium, and his sonsoffered prizes in his honour. There was then none that could viewith me neither of the Epeans nor the Pylians themselves nor theAetolians. In boxing I overcame Clytomedes son of Enops, and inwrestling, Ancaeus of Pleuron who had come forward against me.Iphiclus was a good runner, but I beat him, and threw farther withmy spear than either Phyleus or Polydorus. In chariot-racing alone didthe two sons of Actor surpass me by crowding their horses in frontof me, for they were angry at the way victory had gone, and at thegreater part of the prizes remaining in the place in which they hadbeen offered. They were twins, and the one kept on holding thereins, and holding the reins, while the other plied the whip. Such wasI then, but now I must leave these matters to younger men; I mustbow before the weight of years, but in those days I was eminentamong heroes. And now, sir, go on with the funeral contests inhonour of your comrade: gladly do I accept this urn, and my heartrejoices that you do not forget me but are ever mindful of my goodwilltowards you, and of the respect due to me from the Achaeans. For allwhich may the grace of heaven be vouchsafed you in great abundance."Thereon the son of Peleus, when he had listened to all the thanks ofNestor, went about among the concourse of the Achaeans, andpresently offered prizes for skill in the painful art of boxing. Hebrought out a strong mule, and made it fast in the middle of thecrowd- a she-mule never yet broken, but six years old- when it ishardest of all to break them: this was for the victor, and for thevanquished he offered a double cup. Then he stood up and said amongthe Argives, "Son of Atreus, and all other Achaeans, I invite ourtwo champion boxers to lay about them lustily and compete for theseprizes. He to whom Apollo vouchsafes the greater endurance, and whomthe Achaeans acknowledge as victor, shall take the mule back withhim to his own tent, while he that is vanquished shall have the doublecup."As he spoke there stood up a champion both brave and greatstature, a skilful boxer, Epeus, son of Panopeus. He laid his handon the mule and said, "Let the man who is to have the cup come hither,for none but myself will take the mule. I am the best boxer of allhere present, and none can beat me. Is it not enough that I shouldfall short of you in actual fighting? Still, no man can be good ateverything. I tell you plainly, and it shall come true; if any manwill box with me I will bruise his body and break his bones; thereforelet his friends stay here in a body and be at hand to take him awaywhen I have done with him."They all held their peace, and no man rose save Euryalus son ofMecisteus, who was son of Talaus. Mecisteus went once to Thebesafter the fall of Oedipus, to attend his funeral, and he beat allthe people of Cadmus. The son of Tydeus was Euryalus's second,cheering him on and hoping heartily that he would win. First he puta waistband round him and then he gave him some well-cut thongs ofox-hide; the two men being now girt went into the middle of thering, and immediately fell to; heavily indeed did they punish oneanother and lay about them with their brawny fists. One could hear thehorrid crashing of their jaws, and they sweated from every pore oftheir skin. Presently Epeus came on and gave Euryalus a blow on thejaw as he was looking round; Euryalus could not keep his legs; theygave way under him in a moment and he sprang up with a bound, as afish leaps into the air near some shore that is all bestrewn withsea-wrack, when Boreas furs the top of the waves, and then fallsback into deep water. But noble Epeus caught hold of him and raisedhim up; his comrades also came round him and led him from the ring,unsteady in his gait, his head hanging on one side, and spitting greatclots of gore. They set him down in a swoon and then went to fetch thedouble cup.The son of Peleus now brought out the prizes for the third contestand showed them to the Argives. These were for the painful art ofwrestling. For the winner there was a great tripod ready for settingupon the fire, and the Achaeans valued it among themselves at twelveoxen. For the loser he brought out a woman skilled in all manner ofarts, and they valued her at four oxen. He rose and said among theArgives, "Stand forward, you who will essay this contest."Forthwith uprose great Ajax the son of Telamon, and craftyUlysses, full of wiles rose also. The two girded themselves and wentinto the middle of the ring. They gripped each other in their stronghands like the rafters which some master-builder frames for the roofof a high house to keep the wind out. Their backbones cracked asthey tugged at one another with their mighty arms- and sweat rainedfrom them in torrents. Many a bloody weal sprang up on their sides andshoulders, but they kept on striving with might and main for victoryand to win the tripod. Ulysses could not throw Ajax, nor Ajax him;Ulysses was too strong for him; but when the Achaeans began to tire ofwatching them, Ajax said to ulysses, "Ulysses, noble son of Laertes,you shall either lift me, or I you, and let Jove settle it betweenus."He lifted him from the ground as he spoke, but Ulysses did notforget his cunning. He hit Ajax in the hollow at back of his knee,so that he could not keep his feet, but fell on his back withUlysses lying upon his chest, and all who saw it marvelled. ThenUlysses in turn lifted Ajax and stirred him a little from the groundbut could not lift him right off it, his knee sank under him, andthe two fell side by side on the ground and were all begrimed withdust. They now sprang towards one another and were for wrestling yet athird time, but Achilles rose and stayed them. "Put not each otherfurther," said he, "to such cruel suffering; the victory is withboth alike, take each of you an equal prize, and let the otherAchaeans now compete."Thus did he speak and they did even as he had said, and put on theirshirts again after wiping the dust from off their bodies.The son of Peleus then offered prizes for speed in running- amixing-bowl beautifully wrought, of pure silver. It would hold sixmeasures, and far exceeded all others in the whole world for beauty;it was the work of cunning artificers in Sidon, and had been broughtinto port by Phoenicians from beyond the sea, who had made a presentof it to Thoas. Eueneus son of jason had given it to Patroclus inransom of Priam's son Lycaon, and Achilles now offered it as a prizein honour of his comrade to him who should be the swiftest runner. Forthe second prize he offered a large ox, well fattened, while for thelast there was to be half a talent of gold. He then rose and saidamong the Argives, "Stand forward, you who will essay this contest."Forthwith uprose fleet Ajax son of Oileus, with cunning Ulysses, andNestor's son Antilochus, the fastest runner among all the youth of histime. They stood side by side and Achilles showed them the goal. Thecourse was set out for them from the starting-post, and the son ofOileus took the lead at once, with Ulysses as close behind him asthe shuttle is to a woman's bosom when she throws the woof acrossthe warp and holds it close up to her; even so close behind him wasUlysses- treading in his footprints before the dust could settlethere, and Ajax could feel his breath on the back of his head as heran swiftly on. The Achaeans all shouted applause as they saw himstraining his utmost, and cheered him as he shot past them; but whenthey were now nearing the end of the course Ulysses prayed inwardly toMinerva. "Hear me," he cried, "and help my feet, O goddess." Thusdid he pray, and Pallas Minerva heard his prayer; she made his handsand his feet feel light, and when the runners were at the point ofpouncing upon the prize, Ajax, through Minerva's spite slipped uponsome offal that was lying there from the cattle which Achilles hadslaughtered in honour of Patroclus, and his mouth and nostrils wereall filled with cow dung. Ulysses therefore carried off themixing-bowl, for he got before Ajax and came in first. But Ajax tookthe ox and stood with his hand on one of its horns, spitting thedung out of his mouth. Then he said to the Argives, "Alas, the goddesshas spoiled my running; she watches over Ulysses and stands by himas though she were his own mother." Thus did he speak and they allof them laughed heartily.Antilochus carried off the last prize and smiled as he said to thebystanders, "You all see, my friends, that now too the gods have showntheir respect for seniority. Ajax is somewhat older than I am, andas for Ulysses, he belongs to an earlier generation, but he is hale inspite of his years, and no man of the Achaeans can run against himsave only Achilles."He said this to pay a compliment to the son of Peleus, andAchilles answered, "Antilochus, you shall not have praised me to nopurpose; I shall give you an additional half talent of gold." Hethen gave the half talent to Antilochus, who received it gladly.Then the son of Peleus brought out the spear, helmet and shield thathad been borne by Sarpedon, and were taken from him by Patroclus. Hestood up and said among the Argives, "We bid two champions put ontheir armour, take their keen blades, and make trial of one another inthe presence of the multitude; whichever of them can first wound theflesh of the other, cut through his armour, and draw blood, to himwill I give this goodly Thracian sword inlaid with silver, which Itook from Asteropaeus, but the armour let both hold in partnership,and I will give each of them a hearty meal in my own tent."Forthwith uprose great Ajax the son of Telamon, as also mightyDiomed son of Tydeus. When they had put on their armour each on hisown side of the ring, they both went into the middle eager toengage, and with fire flashing from their eyes. The Achaeans marvelledas they beheld them, and when the two were now close up with oneanother, thrice did they spring forward and thrice try to strikeeach other in close combat. Ajax pierced Diomed's round shield, butdid not draw blood, for the cuirass beneath the shield protectedhim; thereon the son of Tydeus from over his huge shield kept aimingcontinually at Ajax's neck with the point of his spear, and theAchaeans alarmed for his safety bade them leave off fighting anddivide the prize between them. Achilles then gave the great sword tothe son of Tydeus, with its scabbard, and the leathern belt with whichto hang it.Achilles next offered the massive iron quoit which mighty Eetion haderewhile been used to hurl, until Achilles had slain him and carriedit off in his ships along with other spoils. He stood up and saidamong the Argives, "Stand forward, you who would essay this contest.He who wins it will have a store of iron that will last him five yearsas they go rolling round, and if his fair fields lie far from a townhis shepherd or ploughman will not have to make a journey to buy iron,for he will have a stock of it on his own premises."Then uprose the two mighty men Polypoetes and Leonteus, with Ajaxson of Telamon and noble Epeus. They stood up one after the otherand Epeus took the quoit, whirled it, and flung it from him, which setall the Achaeans laughing. After him threw Leonteus of the race ofMars. Ajax son of Telamon threw third, and sent the quoit beyond anymark that had been made yet, but when mighty Polypoetes took the quoithe hurled it as though it had been a stockman's stick which he sendsflying about among his cattle when he is driving them, so far didhis throw out-distance those of the others. All who saw it roaredapplause, and his comrades carried the prize for him and set it onboard his ship.Achilles next offered a prize of iron for archery- tendouble-edged axes and ten with single eddies: he set up a ship's mast,some way off upon the sands, and with a fine string tied a pigeon toit by the foot; this was what they were to aim at. "Whoever," he said,"can hit the pigeon shall have all the axes and take them away withhim; he who hits the string without hitting the bird will have taken aworse aim and shall have the single-edged axes."Then uprose King Teucer, and Meriones the stalwart squire ofIdomeneus rose also, They cast lots in a bronze helmet and the lotof Teucer fell first. He let fly with his arrow forthwith, but hedid not promise hecatombs of firstling lambs to King Apollo, andmissed his bird, for Apollo foiled his aim; but he hit the string withwhich the bird was tied, near its foot; the arrow cut the string cleanthrough so that it hung down towards the ground, while the bird flewup into the sky, and the Achaeans shouted applause. Meriones, whohad his arrow ready while Teucer was aiming, snatched the bow out ofhis hand, and at once promised that he would sacrifice a hecatomb offirstling lambs to Apollo lord of the bow; then espying the pigeonhigh up under the clouds, he hit her in the middle of the wing asshe was circling upwards; the arrow went clean through the wing andfixed itself in the ground at Meriones' feet, but the bird perchedon the ship's mast hanging her head and with all her feathersdrooping; the life went out of her, and she fell heavily from themast. Meriones, therefore, took all ten double-edged axes, whileTeucer bore off the single-edged ones to his ships.Then the son of Peleus brought in a spear and a cauldron that hadnever been on the fire; it was worth an ox, and was chased with apattern of flowers; and those that throw the javelin stood up- towit the son of Atreus, king of men Agamemnon, and Meriones, stalwartsquire of Idomeneus. But Achilles spoke saying, "Son of Atreus, weknow how far you excel all others both in power and in throwing thejavelin; take the cauldron back with you to your ships, but if it soplease you, let us give the spear to Meriones; this at least is what Ishould myself wish."King Agamemnon assented. So he gave the bronze spear to Meriones,and handed the goodly cauldron to Talthybius his esquire.

The Victories Of Love. Book I

IFrom Frederick Graham

Mother, I smile at your alarms!I own, indeed, my Cousin's charms,But, like all nursery maladies,Love is not badly taken twice.Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes,My playmate in the pleasant daysAt Knatchley, and her sister, Anne,The twins, so made on the same plan,That one wore blue, the other white,To mark them to their father's sight;And how, at Knatchley harvesting,You bade me kiss her in the ring,Like Anne and all the others? You,That never of my sickness knew,Will laugh, yet had I the disease,And gravely, if the signs are these:

As, ere the Spring has any power,The almond branch all turns to flower,Though not a leaf is out, so sheThe bloom of life provoked in me;And, hard till then and selfish, IWas thenceforth nought but sanctity And service: life was mere delightIn being wholly good and right,As she was; just, without a slur;Honouring myself no less than her;Obeying, in the loneliest place,Ev'n to the slightest gesture, graceAssured that one so fair, so true,He only served that was so too.For me, hence weak towards the weak,No more the unnested blackbird's shriekStartled the light-leaved wood; on highWander'd the gadding butterfly,Unscared by my flung cap; the bee,Rifling the hollyhock in glee,Was no more trapp'd with his own flower,And for his honey slain. Her power,From great things even to the grassThrough which the unfenced footways pass,Was law, and that which keeps the law,Cherubic gaiety and awe;Day was her doing, and the larkHad reason for his song; the darkIn anagram innumerous speltHer name with stars that throbb'd and felt;'Twas the sad summit of delightTo wake and weep for her at night;She turn'd to triumph or to shameThe strife of every childish game;The heart would come into my throatAt rosebuds; howsoe'er remote,In opposition or consent,Each thing, or person, or event,Or seeming neutral howsoe'er,All, in the live, electric air,Awoke, took aspect, and confess'dIn her a centre of unrest, Yea, stocks and stones within me bredAnxieties of joy and dread.

O, bright apocalyptic skyO'erarching childhood! Far and nighMystery and obscuration none,Yet nowhere any moon or sun!What reason for these sighs? What hope,Daunting with its audacious scopeThe disconcerted heart, affectsThese ceremonies and respects?Why stratagems in everything?Why, why not kiss her in the ring?'Tis nothing strange that warriors bold,Whose fierce, forecasting eyes beholdThe city they desire to sack,Humbly begin their proud attackBy delving ditches two miles off,Aware how the fair place would scoffAt hasty wooing; but, O child,Why thus approach thy playmate mild?

One morning, when it flush'd my thoughtThat, what in me such wonder wroughtWas call'd, in men and women, love,And, sick with vanity thereof,I, saying loud, ‘I love her,’ toldMy secret to myself, beholdA crisis in my mystery!For, suddenly, I seem'd to beWhirl'd round, and bound with showers of threadsAs when the furious spider shedsCaptivity upon the flyTo still his buzzing till he die;Only, with me, the bonds that flew,Enfolding, thrill'd me through and throughWith bliss beyond aught heaven can haveAnd pride to dream myself her slave.

A long, green slip of wilder'd land,With Knatchley Wood on either hand,Sunder'd our home from hers. This dayGlad was I as I went her way.I stretch'd my arms to the sky, and sprangO'er the elastic sod, and sang‘I love her, love her!’ to an airWhich with the words came then and there;And even now, when I would knowAll was not always dull and low,I mind me awhile of the sweet strainLove taught me in that lonely lane.

Such glories fade, with no more markThan when the sunset dies to dark.They pass, the rapture and the graceIneffable, their only traceA heart which, having felt no lessThan pure and perfect happiness,Is duly dainty of delight;A patient, poignant appetiteFor pleasures that exceed so muchThe poor things which the world calls such,That, when these lure it, then you mayThe lion with a wisp of hay.

That Charlotte, whom we scarcely knewFrom Anne but by her ribbons blue,Was loved, Anne less than look'd at, showsThat liking still by favour goes!This Love is a Divinity,And holds his high election freeOf human merit; or let's say,A child by ladies call'd to play,But careless of their becks and wiles,Till, seeing one who sits and smilesLike any else, yet only charms,He cries to come into her arms. Then, for my Cousins, fear me not!None ever loved because he ought.Fatal were else this graceful house,So full of light from ladies' brows.There's Mary; Heaven in her appearsLike sunshine through the shower's bright tears;Mildred's of Earth, yet happier farThan most men's thoughts of Heaven are;But, for Honoria, Heaven and EarthSeal'd amity in her sweet birth.The noble Girl! With whom she talksShe knights first with her smile; she walks,Stands, dances, to such sweet effect,Alone she seems to move erect.The brightest and the chastest browRules o'er a cheek which seems to showThat love, as a mere vague suspenseOf apprehensive innocence,Perturbs her heart; love without aimOr object, like the sunlit flameThat in the Vestals' Temple glow'd,Without the image of a god.And this simplicity most pureShe sets off with no less allureOf culture, subtly skill'd to raiseThe power, the pride, and mutual praiseOf human personalityAbove the common sort so high,It makes such homely souls as mineMarvel how brightly life may shine.How you would love her! Even in dressShe makes the common mode expressNew knowledge of what's fit so well'Tis virtue gaily visible!Nay, but her silken sash to meWere more than all morality, Had not the old, sweet, feverous illLeft me the master of my will!

So, Mother, feel at rest, and pleaseTo send my books on board. With these,When I go hence, all idle hoursShall help my pleasures and my powers.I've time, you know, to fill my post,And yet make up for schooling lostThrough young sea-service. They all speakGerman with ease; and this, with Greek,(Which Dr. Churchill thought I knew,)And history, which I fail'd in too,Will stop a gap I somewhat dread,After the happy life I've ledWith these my friends; and sweet 'twill beTo abridge the space from them to me.

II From Mrs. Graham

My Child, Honoria Churchill swaysA double power through Charlotte Hayes.In minds to first-love's memory pledgedThe second Cupid's born full-fledged.I saw, and trembled for the dayWhen you should see her beauty, gayAnd pure as apple-blooms, that showOutside a blush and inside snow,Her high and touching eleganceOf order'd life as free as chance.Ah, haste from her bewitching side,No friend for you, far less a bride! But, warning from a hope so wild,I wrong you. Yet this know, my Child:He that but once too nearly hearsThe music of forefended spheres,Is thenceforth lonely, and for allHis days like one who treads the WallOf China, and, on this hand, seesCities and their civilities,And, on the other, lions. Well,(Your rash reply I thus foretell,)Good is the knowledge of what's fair,Though bought with temporal despair!Yes, good for one, but not for two.Will it content a wife that youShould pine for love, in love's embrace,Through having known a happier grace;And break with inward sighs your rest,Because, though good, she's not the best?You would, you think, be just and kind,And keep your counsel! You will findYou cannot such a secret keep;'Twill out, like murder, in your sleep;A touch will tell it, though, for pride,She may her bitter knowledge hide;And, while she accepts love's make-believe,You'll twice despise what you'd deceive.

I send the books. Dear Child, adieu!Tell me of all you are and do.I know, thank God, whate'er it be,'Twill need no veil 'twixt you and me.

III From Frederick

The multitude of voices blytheOf early day, the hissing scytheAcross the dew drawn and withdrawn,The noisy peacock on the lawn,These, and the sun's eye-gladding gleam,This morning, chased the sweetest dreamThat e'er shed penitential graceOn life's forgetful commonplace;Yet 'twas no sweeter than the spellTo which I woke to say farewell.

Noon finds me many a mile removedFrom her who must not be beloved;And us the waste sea soon shall part,Heaving for aye, without a heart!Mother, what need to warn me so?I love Miss Churchill? Ah, no, no.I view, enchanted, from afar,And love her as I love a star,For, not to speak of colder fear,Which keeps my fancy calm, I hear,Under her life's gay progress hurl'd,The wheels of the preponderant world,Set sharp with swords that fool to slayWho blunders from a poor byway,To covet beauty with a crownOf earthly blessing added on;And she's so much, it seems to me,Beyond all women womanly,I dread to think how he should fareWho came so near as to despair.

IV From Frederick

Yonder the sombre vessel ridesWhere my obscure condition hides.Waves scud to shore against the windThat flings the sprinkling surf behind;In port the bickering pennons showWhich way the ships would gladly go;Through Edgecumb Park the rooted treesAre tossing, reckless, in the breeze;On top of Edgecumb's firm-set tower,As foils, not foibles, of its power,The light vanes do themselves adjustTo every veering of the gust:By me alone may nought be givenTo guidance of the airs of heaven?In battle or peace, in calm or storm,Should I my daily task perform,Better a thousand times for love,Who should my secret soul reprove?

Beholding one like her, a manLongs to lay down his life! How canAught to itself seem thus enough,When I have so much need thereof?Blest in her place, blissful is she;And I, departing, seem to beLike the strange waif that comes to runA few days flaming near the sun,And carries back, through boundless night,Its lessening memory of light.

Oh, my dear Mother, I confessTo a deep grief of homelessness, Unfelt, save once, before. 'Tis yearsSince such a shower of girlish tearsDisgraced me? But this wretched Inn,At Plymouth, is so full of din,Talkings and trampings to and fro.And then my ship, to which I goTo-night, is no more home. I dread,As strange, the life I long have led;And as, when first I went to school,And found the horror of a ruleWhich only ask'd to be obey'd,I lay and wept, of dawn afraid,And thought, with bursting heart, of oneWho, from her little, wayward son,Required obedience, but aboveObedience still regarded love,So change I that enchanting place,The abode of innocence and graceAnd gaiety without reproof,For the black gun-deck's louring roof,Blind and inevitable lawWhich makes light duties burdens, aweWhich is not reverence, laughters gain'dAt cost of purities profaned,And whatsoever most may stirRemorseful passion towards her,Whom to behold is to departFrom all defect of life and heart.

But, Mother, I shall go on shore,And see my Cousin yet once more!'Twere wild to hope for her, you say.l've torn and cast those words away.Surely there's hope! For life 'tis wellLove without hope's impossible;So, if I love, it is that hopeIs not outside the outer scope Of fancy. You speak truth: this hourI must resist, or lose the power.What! and, when some short months are o'er,Be not much other than before?Drop from the bright and virtuous sphereIn which I'm held but while she's dear?For daily life's dull, senseless mood,Slay the fine nerves of gratitudeAnd sweet allegiance, which I oweWhether the debt be weal or woe?Nay, Mother, I, forewarn'd, preferTo want for all in wanting her.

For all? Love's best is not bereftEver from him to whom is leftThe trust that God will not deceiveHis creature, fashion'd to believeThe prophecies of pure desire.Not loss, not death, my love shall tire.A mystery does my heart foretell;Nor do I press the oracleFor explanations. Leave me alone,And let in me love's will be done.

V From Frederick

Fashion'd by Heaven and by artSo is she, that she makes the heartAche and o'erflow with tears, that graceSo lovely fair should have for place,(Deeming itself at home the while,)The unworthy earth! To see her smile Amid this waste of pain and sin,As only knowing the heaven within,Is sweet, and does for pity stirPassion to be her minister:Wherefore last night I lay awake,And said, ‘Ah, Lord, for Thy love's sake,Give not this darling child of ThineTo care less reverent than mine!’And, as true faith was in my word,I trust, I trust that I was heard.

The waves, this morning, sped to land,And shouted hoarse to touch the strand,Where Spring, that goes not out to sea,Lay laughing in her lovely glee;And, so, my life was sunlit sprayAnd tumult, as, once more to-day,For long farewell did I draw nearMy Cousin, desperately dear.Faint, fierce, the truth that hope was noneGleam'd like the lightning in the sun;Yet hope I had, and joy thereof.The father of love is hope, (though loveLives orphan'd on, when hope is dead,)And, out of my immediate dreadAnd crisis of the coming hour,Did hope itself draw sudden power.So the still brooding storm, in Spring,Makes all the birds begin to sing.

Mother, your foresight did not err:I've lost the world, and not won her.And yet, ah, laugh not, when you thinkWhat cup of life I sought to drink!The bold, said I, have climb'd to blissAbsurd, impossible, as this,With nought to help them but so greatA heart it fascinates their fate. If ever Heaven heard man's desire,Mine, being made of altar-fire,Must come to pass, and it will beThat she will wait, when she shall see,This evening, how I go to get,By means unknown, I know not yetQuite what, but ground whereon to stand,And plead more plainly for her hand!

And so I raved, and cast in hopeA superstitious horoscope!And still, though something in her facePortended ‘No!’ with such a graceIt burthen'd me with thankfulness,Nothing was credible but ‘Yes.’Therefore, through time's close pressure bold,I praised myself, and boastful toldMy deeds at Acre; strain'd the chanceI had of honour and advanceIn war to come; and would not seeSad silence meant, ‘What's this to me.’

When half my precious hour was gone,She rose to greet a Mr. Vaughan;And, as the image of the moonBreaks up, within some still lagoonThat feels the soft wind suddenly,Or tide fresh flowing from the sea,And turns to giddy flames that goOver the water to and fro,Thus, when he took her hand to-night,Her lovely gravity of lightWas scatter'd into many smilesAnd flattering weakness. Hope beguilesNo more my heart, dear Mother. He,By jealous looks, o'erhonour'd me.

With nought to do, and fondly fainTo hear her singing once again, I stay'd, and turn'd her music o'er;Then came she with me to the door.‘Dearest Honoria,’ I said,(By my despair familiar made,)‘Heaven bless you!’ Oh, to have back then stepp'dAnd fallen upon her neck, and wept,And said, ‘My friend, I owe you all‘I am, and have, and hope for. Call‘For some poor service; let me prove‘To you, or him here whom you love,‘My duty. Any solemn task,‘For life's whole course, is all I ask!’Then she must surely have wept too,And said, ‘My friend, what can you do!’And I should have replied, ‘I'll pray‘For you and him three times a-day,‘And, all day, morning, noon, and night,‘My life shall be so high and right‘That never Saint yet scaled the stairs‘Of heaven with more availing prayers!’But this (and, as good God shall blessSomehow my end, I'll do no less,)I had no right to speak. Oh, shame,So rich a love, so poor a claim!

My Mother, now my only friend,Farewell. The school-books which you sendI shall not want, and so return.Give them away, or sell, or burn.I'll write from Malta. Would I mightBut be your little Child to-night,And feel your arms about me fold,Against this loneliness and cold!

VI From Mrs. Graham

The folly of young girls! They doffTheir pride to smooth success, and scoffAt far more noble fire and mightThat woo them from the dust of fight!

But, Frederick, now the storm is past,Your sky should not remain o'ercast.A sea-life's dull, and, oh, bewareOf nourishing, for zest, despair.My Child, remember, you have twiceHeartily loved; then why not thrice,Or ten times? But a wise man shunsTo cry ‘All's over,’ more than once.I'll not say that a young man's soulIs scarcely measure of the wholeEarthly and heavenly universe,To which he inveterately prefersThe one beloved woman. BestSpeak to the senses' interest,Which brooks no mystery nor delay:Frankly reflect, my Son, and say,Was there no secret hour, of thosePass'd at her side in Sarum Close,When, to your spirit's sick alarm,It seem'd that all her marvellous charmWas marvellously fled? Her graceOf voice, adornment, movement, faceWas what already heart and eyeHad ponder'd to satiety;And so the good of life was o'er,Until some laugh not heard before, Some novel fashion in her hair,Or style of putting back her chair,Restored the heavens. Gather thenceThe loss-consoling inference.

Yet blame not beauty, which beguiles,With lovely motions and sweet smiles,Which while they please us pass away,The spirit to lofty thoughts that stayAnd lift the whole of after-life,Unless you take the vision to wife,Which then seems lost, or serves to slakeDesire, as when a lovely lakeFar off scarce fills the exulting eyeOf one athirst, who comes thereby,And inappreciably sipsThe deep, with disappointed lips.To fail is sorrow, yet confessThat love pays dearly for success!No blame to beauty! Let's complainOf the heart, which can so ill sustainDelight. Our griefs declare our fall,But how much more our joys! They pallWith plucking, and celestial mirthCan find no footing on the earth,More than the bird of paradise,Which only lives the while it flies.

Think, also, how 'twould suit your prideTo have this woman for a bride.Whate'er her faults, she's one of thoseTo whom the world's last polish owesA novel grace, which all who aspireTo courtliest custom must acquire.The world's the sphere she's made to charm,Which you have shunn'd as if 'twere harm.Oh, law perverse, that lonelinessBreeds love, society success! Though young, 'twere now o'er late in lifeTo train yourself for such a wife;So she would suit herself to you,As women, when they marry, do.For, since 'tis for our dignityOur lords should sit like lords on high,We willingly deteriorateTo a step below our rulers' state;And 'tis the commonest of thingsTo see an angel, gay with wings,Lean weakly on a mortal's arm!Honoria would put off the charmOf lofty grace that caught your love,For fear you should not seem aboveHerself in fashion and degree,As in true merit. Thus, you see,'Twere little kindness, wisdom none,To light your cot with such a sun.

VIIFrom Frederick

Write not, my Mother, her dear nameWith the least word or hint of blame.Who else shall discommend her choice,I giving it my hearty voice?Wed me? Ah, never near her comeThe knowledge of the narrow home!Far fly from her dear face, that showsThe sunshine lovelier than the rose,The sordid gravity they wearWho poverty's base burthen bear! (And all are poor who come to missTheir custom, though a crown be this.)My hope was, that the wheels of fate,For my exceeding need, might wait,And she, unseen amidst all eyes,Move sightless, till I sought the prize,With honour, in an equal field.But then came Vaughan, to whom I yieldWith grace as much as any man,In such cause, to another can.Had she been mine, it seems to meThat I had that integrityAnd only joy in her delight—But each is his own favouriteIn love! The thought to bring me restIs that of us she takes the best.

'Twas but to see him to be sureThat choice for her remain'd no more!His brow, so gaily clear of craft;His wit, the timely truth that laugh'dTo find itself so well express'd;His words, abundant yet the best;His spirit, of such handsome showYou mark'd not that his looks were so;His bearing, prospects, birth, all theseMight well, with small suit, greatly please;How greatly, when she saw ariseThe reflex sweetness of her eyesIn his, and every breath deferHumbly its bated life to her;Whilst power and kindness of command,Which women can no more withstandThan we their grace, were still unquell'd,And force and flattery both compell'dHer softness! Say I'm worthy. IGrew, in her presence, cold and shy. It awed me, as an angel's mightIn raiment of reproachful light.Her gay looks told my sombre moodThat what's not happy is not good;And, just because 'twas life to please,Death to repel her, truth and easeDeserted me; I strove to talk,And stammer'd foolishness; my walkWas like a drunkard's; if she tookMy arm, it stiffen'd, ached, and shook:A likely wooer! Blame her not;Nor ever say, dear Mother, aughtAgainst that perfectness which isMy strength, as once it was my bliss.

And do not chafe at social rules.Leave that to charlatans and fools.Clay graffs and clods conceive the rose,So base still fathers best. Life owesItself to bread; enough thereofAnd easy days condition love;And, kindly train'd, love's roses thrive,No more pale, scentless petals five,Which moisten the considerate eyeTo see what haste they make to die,But heavens of colour and perfume,Which, month by month, renew the bloomOf art-born graces, when the yearIn all the natural grove is sere.

Religion, duty, books, work, friends,—'Tis good advice, but there it ends.I'm sick for what these have not got.Send no more books: they help me not;I do my work: the void's there stillWhich carefullest duty cannot fill.What though the inaugural hour of rightComes ever with a keen delight?Little relieves the labour's heat;Disgust oft crowns it when complete;And life, in fact, is not less dullFor being very dutiful.‘The stately homes of England,’ lo,‘How beautiful they stand!’ They oweHow much to nameless things like meTheir beauty of security!But who can long a low toil mendBy looking to a lofty end?And let me, since 'tis truth, confessThe void's not fill'd by godliness.God is a tower without a stair,And His perfection, love's despair.'Tis He shall judge me when I die;He suckles with the hissing flyThe spider; gazes calmly down,Whilst rapine grips the helpless town.His vast love holds all this and more.In consternation I adore.Nor can I ease this aching gulfWith friends, the pictures of myself.

Then marvel not that I recurFrom each and all of these to her.For more of heaven than her have INo sensitive capacity.Had I but her, ah, what the gainOf owning aught but that domain!Nay, heaven's extent, however much,Cannot be more than many such;And, she being mine, should God to meSay ‘Lo! my Child, I give to theeAll heaven besides,’ what could I then,But, as a child, to Him complainThat whereas my dear Father gaveA little space for me to haveIn His great garden, now, o'erblest,I've that, indeed, but all the rest,Which, somehow, makes it seem I've gotAll but my only cared-for plot.Enough was that for my weak handTo tend, my heart to understand.

Oh, the sick fact, 'twixt her and meThere's naught, and half a world of sea.

IX From Frederick

In two, in less than two hours moreI set my foot on English shore,Two years untrod, and, strange to tell,Nigh miss'd through last night's storm! There fellA man from the shrouds, that roar'd to quenchEven the billows' blast and drench. Besides me none was near to markHis loud cry in the louder dark,Dark, save when lightning show'd the deepsStanding about in stony heaps.No time for choice! A rope; a flashThat flamed as he rose; a dizzy splash;A strange, inopportune delightOf mounting with the billowy might,And falling, with a thrill againOf pleasure shot from feet to brain;And both paced deck, ere any knewOur peril. Round us press'd the crew,With wonder in the eyes of most.As if the man who had loved and lostHonoria dared no more than that!

My days have else been stale and flat.This life's at best, if justly scann'd,A tedious walk by the other's strand,With, here and there cast up, a pieceOf coral or of ambergris,Which, boasted of abroad, we ignoreThe burden of the barren shore.I seldom write, for 'twould be stillOf how the nerves refuse to thrill;How, throughout doubly-darken'd days,I cannot recollect her face;How to my heart her name to tellIs beating on a broken bell;And, to fill up the abhorrent gulf,Scarce loving her, I hate myself.

Yet, latterly, with strange delight,Rich tides have risen in the night,And sweet dreams chased the fancies denseOf waking life's dull somnolence.I see her as I knew her, graceAlready glory in her face; I move about, I cannot rest,For the proud brain and joyful breastI have of her. Or else I float,The pilot of an idle boat,Alone, alone with sky and sea,And her, the third simplicity.Or Mildred, to some question, cries,(Her merry meaning in her eyes,)‘The Ball, oh, Frederick will go;‘Honoria will be there!’ and, lo,As moisture sweet my seeing blursTo hear my name so link'd with hers,A mirror joins, by guilty chance,Either's averted, watchful glance!Or with me, in the Ball-Room's blaze,Her brilliant mildness thrids the maze;Our thoughts are lovely, and each wordIs music in the music heard,And all things seem but parts to beOf one persistent harmony.By which I'm made divinely bold;The secret, which she knows, is told;And, laughing with a lofty blissOf innocent accord, we kiss;About her neck my pleasure weeps;Against my lip the silk vein leaps;Then says an Angel, ‘Day or night,‘If yours you seek, not her delight,‘Although by some strange witchery‘It seems you kiss her, 'tis not she;‘But, whilst you languish at the side‘Of a fair-foul phantasmal bride,‘Surely a dragon and strong tower‘Guard the true lady in her bower.’And I say, ‘Dear my Lord, Amen!’And the true lady kiss again. Or else some wasteful maladyDevours her shape and dims her eye;No charms are left, where all were rife,Except her voice, which is her life,Wherewith she, for her foolish fear,Says trembling, ‘Do you love me, Dear?’And I reply, ‘Sweetest, I vow‘I never loved but half till now.’She turns her face to the wall at this,And says, ‘Go, Love, 'tis too much bliss.’And then a sudden pulse is sentAbout the sounding firmamentIn smitings as of silver bars;The bright disorder of the starsIs solved by music; far and near,Through infinite distinctions clear,Their twofold voices' deeper toneUtters the Name which all things own,And each ecstatic treble dwellsOn one whereof none other tells;And we, sublimed to song and fire,Take order in the wheeling quire,Till from the throbbing sphere I start,Waked by the heaving of my heart.

Such dreams as these come night by night,Disturbing day with their delight.Portend they nothing? Who can tell!God yet may do some miracle.'Tis nigh two years, and she's not wed,Or you would know! He may be dead,Or mad, and loving some one else,And she, much moved that nothing quellsMy constancy, or, simply wrothWith such a wretch, accept my trothTo spite him; or her beauty's gone,(And that's my dream!) and this man Vaughan Takes her release: or tongues malign,Confusing every ear but mine,Have smirch'd her: ah, 'twould move her, sure,To find I loved her all the more!Nay, now I think, haply amissI read her words and looks, and his,That night! Did not his jealousyShow—Good my God, and can it beThat I, a modest fool, all blest,Nothing of such a heaven guess'd?Oh, chance too frail, yet frantic sweet,To-morrow sees me at her feet!

Yonder, at last, the glad sea roarsAlong the sacred English shores!There lies the lovely land I know,Where men and women lordliest grow;There peep the roofs where more than kingsPostpone state cares to country things,And many a gay queen simply tendsThe babes on whom the world depends;There curls the wanton cottage smokeOf him that drives but bears no yoke;There laughs the realm where low and highAre lieges to society.And life has all too wide a scope,Too free a prospect for its hope,For any private good or ill,Except dishonour, quite to fill!—Mother, since this was penn'd, I've readThat ‘Mr. Vaughan, on Tuesday, wed‘The beautiful Miss Churchill.’ SoThat's over; and to-morrow I goTo take up my new post on boardThe ‘Wolf,’ my peace at last restored; My lonely faith, like heart-of-oak,Shock-season'd. Grief is now the cloakI clasp about me to preventThe deadly chill of a contentWith any near or distant good,Except the exact beatitudeWhich love has shown to my desire.Talk not of ‘other joys and higher,’I hate and disavow all blissAs none for me which is not this.Think not I blasphemously copeWith God's decrees, and cast off hope.How, when, and where can mine succeed?I'll trust He knows who made my need.

Baseness of men! Pursuit being o'er,Doubtless her Husband feels no moreThe heaven of heavens of such a Bride,But, lounging, lets her please his prideWith fondness, guerdons her caressWith little names, and turns a tressRound idle fingers. If 'tis so,Why then I'm happier of the two!Better, for lofty loss, high pain,Than low content with lofty gain.Poor, foolish Dove, to trust from meHer happiness and dignity!

X From Frederick

I thought the worst had brought me balm:'Twas but the tempest's central calm.Vague sinkings of the heart averThat dreadful wrong is come to her,And o'er this dream I brood and dote,And learn its agonies by rote.As if I loved it, early and lateI make familiar with my fate,And feed, with fascinated will,On very dregs of finish'd ill.I think, she's near him now, alone,With wardship and protection none;Alone, perhaps, in the hindering stressOf airs that clasp him with her dress,They wander whispering by the wave;And haply now, in some sea-cave,Where the ribb'd sand is rarely trod,They laugh, they kiss. Oh, God! oh, God!There comes a smile acutely sweetOut of the picturing dark; I meetThe ancient frankness of her gaze,That soft and heart-surprising blazeOf great goodwill and innocence,And perfect joy proceeding thence!Ah! made for earth's delight, yet suchThe mid-sea air's too gross to touch.At thought of which, the soul in meIs as the bird that bites a bee,And darts abroad on frantic wing,Tasting the honey and the sting; And, moaning where all round me sleepAmidst the moaning of the deep,I start at midnight from my bed—And have no right to strike him dead.

What world is this that I am in,Where chance turns sanctity to sin!'Tis crime henceforward to desireThe only good; the sacred fireThat sunn'd the universe is hell!I hear a Voice which argues well:‘The Heaven hard has scorn'd your cry;‘Fall down and worship me, and I‘Will give you peace; go and profane‘This pangful love, so pure, so vain,‘And thereby win forgetfulness‘And pardon of the spirit's excess,‘Which soar'd too nigh that jealous Heaven‘Ever, save thus, to be forgiven.‘No Gospel has come down that cures‘With better gain a loss like yours.‘Be pious! Give the beggar pelf,‘And love your neighbour as yourself!‘You, who yet love, though all is o'er,‘And she'll ne'er be your neighbour more,‘With soul which can in pity smile‘That aught with such a measure vile‘As self should be at all named 'love!'‘Your sanctity the priests reprove;‘Your case of grief they wholly miss;‘The Man of Sorrows names not this.‘The years, they say, graff love divine‘On the lopp'd stock of love like thine;‘The wild tree dies not, but converts.‘So be it; but the lopping hurts,‘The graff takes tardily! Men stanch‘Meantime with earth the bleeding branch, ‘There's nothing heals one woman's loss,‘And lighten's life's eternal cross‘With intermission of sound rest,‘Like lying in another's breast.‘The cure is, to your thinking, low!‘Is not life all, henceforward, so?’

A wonder! Ere these lines were dried,Vaughan and my Love, his three-days' Bride,Became my guests. I look'd, and, lo,In beauty soft as is the snowAnd powerful as the avalanche,She lit the deck. The Heav'n-sent chance!She smiled, surprised. They came to seeThe ship, not thinking to meet me.

At infinite distance she's my day:What then to him? Howbeit they say'Tis not so sunny in the sunBut men might live cool lives thereon!

All's well; for I have seen ariseThat reflex sweetness of her eyesIn his, and watch'd his breath deferHumbly its bated life to her,His wife. My Love, she's safe in hisDevotion! What ask'd I but this?

They bade adieu; I saw them goAcross the sea; and now I knowThe ultimate hope I rested on,The hope beyond the grave, is gone,The hope that, in the heavens high,At last it should appear that ILoved most, and so, by claim divine,Should have her, in the heavens, for mine, According to such nuptial sortAs may subsist in the holy court,Where, if there are all kinds of joysTo exhaust the multitude of choiceIn many mansions, then there areLoves personal and particular,Conspicuous in the glorious skyOf universal charity,As Phosphor in the sunrise. NowI've seen them, I believe their vowImmortal; and the dreadful thought,That he less honour'd than he oughtHer sanctity, is laid to rest,And, blessing them, I too am blest.My goodwill, as a springing air,Unclouds a beauty in despair;I stand beneath the sky's pure copeUnburthen'd even by a hope;And peace unspeakable, a joyWhich hope would deaden and destroy,Like sunshine fills the airy gulfLeft by the vanishing of self.That I have known her; that she movesSomewhere all-graceful; that she loves,And is belov'd, and that she's soMost happy, and to heaven will go,Where I may meet with her, (yet thisI count but accidental bliss,)And that the full, celestial wealOf all shall sensitively feelThe partnership and work of each,And thus my love and labour reachHer region, there the more to blessHer last, consummate happiness,Is guerdon up to the degreeOf that alone true loyalty Which, sacrificing, is not niceAbout the terms of sacrifice,But offers all, with smiles that say,'Tis little, but it is for aye!

XI From Mrs. Graham

You wanted her, my Son, for wife,With the fierce need of life in life.That nobler passion of an hourWas rather prophecy than power;And nature, from such stress unbent,Recurs to deep discouragement.Trust not such peace yet; easy breath,In hot diseases, argues death;And tastelessness within the mouthWorse fever shows than heat or drouth.Wherefore take, Frederick, timely fearAgainst a different danger near:Wed not one woman, oh, my Child,Because another has not smiled!Oft, with a disappointed man,The first who cares to win him can;For, after love's heroic strain,Which tired the heart and brought no gain,He feels consoled, relieved, and easedTo meet with her who can be pleasedTo proffer kindness, and computeHis acquiescence for pursuit;Who troubles not his lonely mood;And asks for love mere gratitude. Ah, desperate folly! Yet, we know,Who wed through love wed mostly so.

At least, my Son, when wed you do,See that the woman equals you,Nor rush, from having loved too high,Into a worse humility.A poor estate's a foolish pleaFor marrying to a base degree.A woman grown cannot be train'd,Or, if she could, no love were gain'd;For, never was a man's heart caughtBy graces he himself had taught.And fancy not 'tis in the mightOf man to do without delight;For, should you in her nothing findTo exhilarate the higher mind,Your soul would deaden useless wingsWith wickedness of lawful things,And vampire pleasure swift destroyEven the memory of joy.So let no man, in desperate mood,Wed a dull girl because she's good.All virtues in his wife soon dim,Except the power of pleasing him,Which may small virtue be, or none!

I know my just and tender Son,To whom the dangerous grace is givenThat scorns a good which is not heaven;My Child, who used to sit and sighUnder the bright, ideal sky,And pass, to spare the farmer's wheat,The poppy and the meadow-sweet!He would not let his wife's heart acheFor what was mainly his mistake;But, having err'd so, all his forceWould fix upon the hard, right course.

She's graceless, say, yet good and true,And therefore inly fair, and, throughThe veils which inward beauty fold,Faith can her loveliness behold.Ah, that's soon tired; faith falls awayWithout the ceremonial stayOf outward loveliness and awe.The weightier matters of the lawShe pays: mere mint and cumin not;And, in the road that she was taught,She treads, and takes for granted stillNature's immedicable ill;So never wears within her eyesA false report of paradise,Nor ever modulates her mirthWith vain compassion of the earth,Which made a certain happier faceAffecting, and a gayer graceWith pathos delicately edged!Yet, though she be not privilegedTo unlock for you your heart's delight,(Her keys being gold, but not the right,)On lower levels she may do!Her joy is more in loving youThan being loved, and she commandsAll tenderness she understands.It is but when you proffer moreThe yoke weighs heavy and chafes sore.It's weary work enforcing loveOn one who has enough thereof,And honour on the lowliheadOf ignorance! Besides, you dread,In Leah's arms, to meet the eyesOf Rachel, somewhere in the skies,And both return, alike relieved,To life less loftily conceived. Alas, alas!

Then wait the moodIn which a woman may be woo'dWhose thoughts and habits are too highFor honour to be flattery,And who would surely not allowThe suit that you could proffer now.Her equal yoke would sit with ease;It might, with wearing, even please,(Not with a better word to moveThe loyal wrath of present love);She would not mope when you were gay,For want of knowing aught to say;Nor vex you with unhandsome wasteOf thoughts ill-timed and words ill-placed;Nor reckon small things duties small,And your fine sense fantastical;Nor would she bring you up a broodOf strangers bound to you by blood,Boys of a meaner moral race,Girls with their mother's evil grace,But not her chance to sometimes findHer critic past his judgment kind;Nor, unaccustom'd to respect,Which men, where 'tis not claim'd, neglect,Confirm you selfish and morose,And slowly, by contagion, gross;But, glad and able to receiveThe honour you would long to give,Would hasten on to justifyExpectancy, however high,Whilst you would happily incurCompulsion to keep up with her.

XII From Frederick

Your letter, Mother, bears the dateOf six months back, and comes too late.My Love, past all conceiving lost,A change seem'd good, at any cost,From lonely, stupid, silent grief,Vain, objectless, beyond relief,And, like a sea-fog, settled denseOn fancy, feeling, thought, and sense.I grew so idle, so despisedMyself, my powers, by Her unprized,Honouring my post, but nothing more,And lying, when I lived on shore,So late of mornings: weak tears stream'dFor such slight cause,—if only gleam'd,Remotely, beautifully bright,On clouded eves at sea, the lightOf English headlands in the sun,—That soon I deem'd 'twere better doneTo lay this poor, complaining wraithOf unreciprocated faith:And so, with heart still bleeding quick,But strengthen'd by the comfort sickOf knowing that She could not care,I turn'd away from my despair,And told our chaplain's daughter, Jane,—A dear, good girl, who saw my pain,And look'd as if she pitied me,—How glad and thankful I should beIf some kind woman, not aboveMyself in rank, would give her love To one that knew not how to woo.Whereat she, without more ado,Blush'd, spoke of love return'd, and closedWith what she thought I had proposed.

And, trust me, Mother, I and Jane,We suit each other well. My gainIs very great in this good Wife,To whom I'm bound, for natural life,By hearty faith, yet crossing notMy faith towards—I know not what!As to the ether is the air,Is her good to Honoria's fair;One place is full of both, yet eachLies quite beyond the other's reachAnd recognition.

If you say,Am I contented? Yea and nay!For what's base but content to growWith less good than the best we know?But think me not from life withdrawn,By passion for a hope that's gone,So far as to forget how muchA woman is, as merely such,To man's affection. What is best,In each, belongs to all the rest;And though, in marriage, quite to kissAnd half to love the custom is,'Tis such dishonour, ruin bare,The soul's interior despair,And life between two troubles toss'd,To me, who think not with the most;Whatever 'twould have been, beforeMy Cousin's time, 'tis now so soreA treason to the abiding throneOf that sweet love which I have known,I cannot live so, and I bend My mind perforce to comprehendThat He who gives command to loveDoes not require a thing aboveThe strength He gives. The highest degreeOf the hardest grace, humility;The step t'ward heaven the latest trod,And that which makes us most like God,And us much more than God behoves,Is, to be humble in our loves.Henceforth for ever therefore IRenounce all partialityOf passion. Subject to controlOf that perspective of the soulWhich God Himself pronounces good,Confirming claims of neighbourhood,And giving man, for earthly life,The closest neighbour in a wife,I'll serve all. Jane be much more dearThan all as she is much more near!I'll love her! Yea, and love's joy comesEver from self-love's martyrdoms!

Yet, not to lie for God, 'tis trueThat 'twas another joy I knewWhen freighted was my heart with fireOf fond, irrational desireFor fascinating, female charms,And hopeless heaven in Her mild arms.Nor wrong I any, if I professThat care for heaven with me were lessBut that I'm utterly imbuedWith faith of all Earth's hope renew'dIn realms where no short-coming painsExpectance, and dear love disdainsTime's treason, and the gathering dross,And lasts for ever in the glossOf newness.

All the bright past seems,Now, but a splendour in my dreams,Which shows, albeit the dreamer wakes,The standard of right life. Life achesTo be therewith conform'd; but, oh,The world's so stolid, dark, and low!That and the mortal elementForbid the beautiful intent,And, like the unborn butterfly,It feels the wings, and wants the sky.

But perilous is the lofty moodWhich cannot yoke with lowly good.Right life, for me, is life that wendsBy lowly ways to lofty ends.I well perceive, at length, that hasteT'ward heaven itself is only waste;And thus I dread the impatient spurOf aught that speaks too plain of Her.There's little here that story tells;But music talks of nothing else.Therefore, when music breathes, I say,(And urge my task,) Away, away!Thou art the voice of one I knew,But what thou say'st is not yet true;Thou art the voice of her I loved,And I would not be vainly moved.

So that which did from death set freeAll things, now dons death's mockery,And takes its place with things that areBut little noted. Do not marFor me your peace! My health is high.The proud possession of mine eyeDeparted, I am much like oneWho had by haughty custom grownTo think gilt rooms, and spacious grounds,Horses, and carriages, and hounds, Fine linen, and an eider bedAs much his need as daily bread,And honour of men as much or more.Till, strange misfortune smiting sore,His pride all goes to pay his debts,A lodging anywhere he gets,And takes his family theretoWeeping, and other relics few,Allow'd, by them that seize his pelf,As precious only to himself.Yet the sun shines; the country greenHas many riches, poorly seenFrom blazon'd coaches; grace at meatGoes well with thrift in what they eat;And there's amends for much bereftIn better thanks for much that's left!

Jane is not fair, yet pleases wellThe eye in which no others dwell;And features somewhat plainly set,And homely manners leave her yetThe crowning boon and most expressOf Heaven's inventive tenderness,A woman. But I do her wrong,Letting the world's eyes guide my tongue!She has a handsomeness that paysNo homage to the hourly gaze,And dwells not on the arch'd brow's heightAnd lids which softly lodge the light,Nor in the pure field of the cheekFlow'rs, though the soul be still to seek;But shows as fits that solemn placeWhereof the window is the face:Blankness and leaden outlines markWhat time the Church within is dark;Yet view it on a Festal night,Or some occasion else for light, And each ungainly line is seenA special character to meanOf Saint or Prophet, and the wholeBlank window is a living scroll.

For hours, the clock upon the shelf,Has all the talking to itself;But to and fro her needle runsTwice, while the clock is ticking once;And, when a wife is well in reach,Not silence separates, but speech;And I, contented, read, or smoke,And idly think, or idly strokeThe winking cat, or watch the fire,In social peace that does not tire;Until, at easeful end of day,She moves, and puts her work away,And, saying ‘How cold 'tis,’ or ‘How warm,’Or something else as little harm,Comes, used to finding, kindly press'd,A woman's welcome to my breast,With all the great advantage clearOf none else having been so near.

But sometimes, (how shall I deny!)There falls, with her thus fondly by,Dejection, and a chilling shade.Remember'd pleasures, as they fade,Salute me, and colossal grow,Like foot-prints in the thawing snow.I feel oppress'd beyond my forceWith foolish envy and remorse.I love this woman, but I mightHave loved some else with more delight;And strange it seems of God that HeShould make a vain capacity.

Such times of ignorant relapse,'Tis well she does not talk, perhaps. The dream, the discontent, the doubt,To some injustice flaming out,Were't else, might leave us both to moanA kind tradition overthrown,And dawning promise once more deadIn the pernicious lowliheadOf not aspiring to be fair.And what am I, that I should dareDispute with God, who moulds one clayTo honour and shame, and wills to payWith equal wages them that delveAbout His vines one hour or twelve!

XIII From Lady Clitheroe To Mary Churchill

I've dreadful news, my Sister dear!Frederick has married, as we hear,Oh, such a girl! This fact we getFrom Mr. Barton, whom we metAt Abury once. He used to know,At Race and Hunt, Lord Clitheroe,And writes that he ‘has seen Fred Graham,‘Commander of the 'Wolf,'—the same‘The Mess call'd Joseph,—with his Wife‘Under his arm.’ He ‘lays his life,‘The fellow married her for love,‘For there was nothing else to move.‘H. is her Shibboleth. 'Tis said‘Her Mother was a Kitchen-Maid.’

Poor Fred! What will Honoria say?She thought so highly of him. PrayTell it her gently. I've no right,I know you hold, to trust my sight;But Frederick's state could not be hid!And Felix, coming when he did,Was lucky; for Honoria, too,Was half in love. How warm she grewOn ‘worldliness,’ when once I saidI fancied that, in ladies, FredHad tastes much better than his means!His hand was worthy of a Queen's,Said she, and actually shed tearsThe night he left us for two years,And sobb'd, when ask'd the cause to tell,That ‘Frederick look'd so miserable.’He did look very dull, no doubt,But such things girls don't cry about.

What weathercocks men always prove!You're quite right not to fall in love.I never did, and, truth to tell,I don't think it respectable.The man can't understand it, too.He likes to be in love with you,But scarce knows how, if you love him,Poor fellow. When 'tis woman's whimTo serve her husband night and day,The kind soul lets her have her way!So, if you wed, as soon you should,Be selfish for your husband's good.Happy the men who relegateTheir pleasures, vanities, and stateTo us. Their nature seems to beTo enjoy themselves by deputy,For, seeking their own benefit,Dear, what a mess they make of it! A man will work his bones away,If but his wife will only play;He does not mind how much he's teased,So that his plague looks always pleased;And never thanks her, while he lives,For anything, but what he gives!'Tis hard to manage men, we hear!Believe me, nothing's easier, Dear.The most important step by farIs finding what their colours are.The next is, not to let them knowThe reason why they love us so.The indolent droop of a blue shawl,Or gray silk's fluctuating fall,Covers the multitude of sinsIn me. Your husband, Love, might winceAt azure, and be wild at slate,And yet do well with chocolate.Of course you'd let him fancy heAdored you for your piety.

XIV From Jane To Her Mother

Dear Mother, as you write, I seeHow glad and thankful I should beFor such a husband. Yet to tellThe truth, I am so miserable!How could he—I remember, though,He never said he loved me! No,He is so right that all seems wrongI've done and thought my whole life long! I'm grown so dull and dead with fearThat Yes and No, when he is near,Is all I have to say. He's quiteUnlike what most would call polite,And yet, when first I saw him comeTo tea in Aunt's fine drawing-room,He made me feel so common! Oh,How dreadful if he thinks me so!It's no use trying to behaveTo him. His eye, so kind and grave,Sees through and through me! Could not you,Without his knowing that I knew,Ask him to scold me now and then?Mother, it's such a weary strainThe way he has of treating meAs if 'twas something fine to beA woman; and appearing notTo notice any faults I've got!I know he knows I'm plain, and small,Stupid, and ignorant, and allAwkward and mean; and, by degrees,I see a beauty which he sees,When often he looks strange awhile,Then recollects me with a smile.

I wish he had that fancied Wife,With me for Maid, now! all my lifeTo dress her out for him, and makeHer looks the lovelier for his sake;To have her rate me till I cried;Then see her seated by his side,And driven off proudly to the Ball;Then to stay up for her, whilst allThe servants were asleep; and hearAt dawn the carriage rolling near,And let them in; and hear her laugh,And boast, he said that none was half So beautiful, and that the Queen,Who danced with him the first, had seenAnd noticed her, and ask'd who wasThat lady in the golden gauze?And then to go to bed, and lieIn a sort of heavenly jealousy,Until 'twas broad day, and I guess'dShe slept, nor knew how she was bless'd.

Pray burn this letter. I would notComplain, but for the fear I've gotOf going wild, as we hear tellOf people shut up in a cell,With no one there to talk to. HeMust never know he is loved by meThe most; he'd think himself to blame;And I should almost die for shame.

If being good would serve insteadOf being graceful, ah, then, Fred—But I, myself, I never couldSee what's in women's being good;For all their goodness is to doJust what their nature tells them to.Now, when a man would do what's right,He has to try with all his might.

Though true and kind in deed and word,Fred's not a vessel of the Lord.But I have hopes of him; for, oh,How can we ever surely knowBut that the very darkest placeMay be the scene of saving grace!

XV From Frederick

‘How did I feel?’ The little wightFill'd me, unfatherly, with fright!So grim it gazed, and, out of the sky,There came, minute, remote, the cry,Piercing, of original pain.I put the wonder back to Jane,And her delight seem'd dash'd, that I,Of strangers still by nature shy,Was not familiar quite so soonWith her small friend of many a moon.But, when the new-made Mother smiled,She seem'd herself a little child,Dwelling at large beyond the lawBy which, till then, I judged and saw;And that fond glow which she felt stirFor it, suffused my heart for her;To whom, from the weak babe, and thenceTo me, an influent innocence,Happy, reparative of life,Came, and she was indeed my wife,As there, lovely with love she lay,Brightly contented all the dayTo hug her sleepy little boy,In the reciprocated joyOf touch, the childish sense of love,Ever inquisitive to proveIts strange possession, and to knowIf the eye's report be really so.

XVI From Jane To Mrs. Graham

Dear Mother,—such if you'll allow,In love, not law, I'll call you now,—I hope you're well. I write to sayFrederick has got, besides his pay,A good appointment in the Docks;Also to thank you for the frocksAnd shoes for Baby. I, (D.V.,)Shall soon be strong. Fred goes to seaNo more. I am so glad; because,Though kinder husband never was,He seems still kinder to becomeThe more he stays with me at home.When we are parted, I see plainHe's dull till he gets used againTo marriage. Do not tell him, though;I would not have him know I know,For all the world.

I try to mindAll your advice; but sometimes findI do not well see how. I thoughtTo take it about dress; so boughtA gay new bonnet, gown, and shawl;But Frederick was not pleased at all;For, though he smiled, and said, ‘How smart!’I feel, you know, what's in his heart.But I shall learn! I fancied longThat care in dress was very wrong,Till Frederick, in his startling way,When I began to blame, one day,The Admiral's Wife, because we hearShe spends two hours, or something near, In dressing, took her part, and saidHow all things deck themselves that wed;How birds and plants grow fine to pleaseEach other in their marriages;And how (which certainly is true—It never struck me—did it you?)Dress was, at first, Heaven's ordinance,And has much Scripture countenance.For Eliezer, we are told,Adorn'd with jewels and with goldRebecca. In the Psalms, again,How the King's Daughter dress'd! And, then,The Good Wife in the Proverbs, sheMade herself clothes of tapestry,Purple and silk: and there's much moreI had not thought about before!But Fred's so clever! Do you know,Since Baby came, he loves me so!I'm really useful, now, to Fred;And none could do so well instead.It's nice to fancy, if I died,He'd miss me from the Darling's side!Also, there's something now, you see,On which we talk, and quite agree;On which, without pride too, I canHope I'm as wise as any man.I should be happy now, if quiteSure that in one thing Fred was right.But, though I trust his prayers are said,Because he goes so late to bed,I doubt his Calling. Glad to findA text adapted to his mind,—That where St. Paul, in Man and Wife,Allows a little worldly life,—He smiled, and said that he knew allSuch things as that without St. Paul! And once he said, when I with painHad got him just to read Romaine,‘Men's creeds should not their hopes condemn.‘Who wait for heaven to come to them‘Are little like to go to heaven,‘If logic's not the devil's leaven!’I cried at such a wicked joke,And he, surprised, went out to smoke.

But to judge him is not for me,Who myself sin so dreadfullyAs half to doubt if I should careTo go to heaven, and he not there.He must be right; and I dare sayI shall soon understand his way.To other things, once strange, I've grownAccustom'd, nay, to like. I own'Twas long before I got well usedTo sit, while Frederick read or musedFor hours, and scarcely spoke. When heFor all that, held the door to me,Pick'd up my handkerchief, and roseTo set my chair, with other showsOf honour, such as men, 'tis true,To sweethearts and fine ladies do,It almost seem'd an unkind jest;But now I like these ways the best.They somehow make me gentle and good;And I don't mind his quiet mood.If Frederick does seem dull awhile,There's Baby. You should see him smile!I'm pretty and nice to him, sweet Pet,And he will learn no better yet:Indeed, now little Johnny makesA busier time of it, and takesOur thoughts off one another more,I'm happy as need be, I'm sure!

The sweetest beauty

The sweetest beauty~The sweetest beautyI've had the joy to knowIs tied to my heartI am bound to herWith an honest devotionMy hearts secret loveThis friendship shall lastIt shall face each test that comesIt shall never be brokenA promise now madeWill be kept as it was sworn From the heart and soul

At one's wits' end

In the wind chill, A broken-wing lavish birdCrash-land to my wistful worldand begged for a shelter.I said that I can look after herbringing fruits from an orchard.I never latch the cage my little birdbut one thing you have to promise me.Never try to flee once you get your wings back.She agreed with a sarcastic smile.

Some One Must

All challenges must be faced in all eventualities.We must never abandon even the most harsh reality.We must light the flame and let it burn.With hearts that always urn.With tables that have turned.Still it becomes what it becomes.This life is never done.With one gone their will be another.Chances just beckoning a person to come to their call. Will you turn away? Watch someone else take it.Or risk another fall.By a obstacle to overcome.Some one must.

N. W. O.

All the locals hide their tears of regretOpen fire cos I love you to deathSky high, with a heartache of stoneYoull never see me cos Im always aloneHow to love without a trace of dissentIll buy the torture cos you pay for the rentTied high with a broken commandYoure all alone to the promised landIm in love with this malicious intentYouve been taken but you dont know it yetWhat you will know must never live to be foundCos its the subject of the eyes of the clown

N.W.O (album Edit)

all the locals hide their tears of regretopen fire cos i love you to deathsky high, with a heartache of stoneyou'll never see me cos i'm always alonehow to love without a trace of dissenti'll buy the torture cos you pay for the renttied high with a broken commandyou're all alone to the promised landi'm in love with this malicious intentyou've been taken but you don't know it yetwhat you will know must never live to be foundcos it's the subject of the eyes of the drowned

Love's A Token (not Be Broken)

when love come(s) aroundtrue to calf my lover's groundand tame me towards a love-a-dubas if it were a lullaby mara why?

and then!

love's a tokena promise not to be brokenmy heart is like a tokenmy love is like a mountainever flowing like a fountainyou dearly caught be trapped with arms so openfor love's a token (not be broken)

thinking! how often than not had i been caughtby someone as beautiful, pure and royal empress her that were so genuinely carved with respect and honor she deservesto be treated to her desires quick glance at her curves!

somebody once told methat when love comes arounda token not to be broken it is

A Promise Made

We have heard many times of people making promises they never keep. This is not one of them. He made a promise silently to himself to fulfil the last wish a dying man. He knew not how long it would take him that promise to fulfil. However, years went by one after the other. Still he intended that promise to fulfil even if it took a lifetime. Ten years passed and still he remembered always saying to himself in the next he would do it. Finally eleven years after his friend’s death he was able that promise to fulfil. In the fulfilment, he gained himself what he had sought for more years than he cared to remember. It was as if his friend was thanking him. For that promise, he never forgot and kept. This story is true as I am that person who made that promiseand fulfilled it not so long ago.

Broken Glasses (2)

It's all broken glasses falling on the floorPiece by piece breaking even moreOne becoming two with each and every blowA tree of glasses will never grow

Broken glasses on the floorA million pieces becoming moreEach piece alone starts to shineAs though each one were becoming alive

A million pieces lie on the floorBroken glasses broken to the coreThey make me cry with their silence aloneAs though they believe that all hope is goneAnd the light that shines on the edge of a pieceIs like an un-witnessed tear of the pain unseenAs though when the pieces stop falling All the glasses stop fighting And chose to shine no more

Broken glasses falling on the floorWhat can I say what have I moreBroken glasses I adoreLike a silent heart beat being ignoredBroken glasses are aliveBroken glasses are the lifeOf a character broken deep inside